I am thinking of a story.
There used to be a girl who was raised in a religious family. Me. I was taught to purge myself of all individual identity so I could devote myself to god. I was told over and over again that god loved me, and that he would talk to me and give my life purpose if I gave myself to him. So I did. I prayed and worked hard, trying to discover god's purpose for my life. I pushed down my own identity. I crushed my own hopes. And I listened. I listened hard for this god's voice. But I never could hear him.
I got older. And the older I got, the harder I had to work to keep myself clean of independent thought. It was like trying not to grow out of baby clothes – impossible, and stifling. I was more and more constrained, until one day, I snapped. I said to myself, "I give up. I won't do this anymore." It was like cutting the leash on a falcon. Endless potential, possibilities, for good or bad. I set myself on a path of destruction. I thought it was intentional, but the more I thought about life, the more I realized that the only paths in life were paths of destruction.
There's a law. I don't know if it's an official law, but it says that all things deteriorate over time. Destruction is not always a bad thing. Sometimes it is the start of something new.
So. I started on my path. After a while, I realized that I didn't believe in love, I had never really believed in love, and that was okay. There were a lot of things I stopped believing. And one day, I looked back over my shoulder and realized I had lost my soul. Or perhaps I had never really had one. Who can say what a soul is, anyway?
Still. Shouldn't I be feeling more? I should feel something about this, right? A sort of sorrow perhaps, at losing this core piece of myself? Perhaps a horror at my own callousness? But all I feel is liberated.
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