They do both. They live in the real world and hold onto their belief. They pray and they take their medicine. They worship and they lobby their politicians for better laws. They seek divine guidance and they hire lawyers. They thank God for a safe journey and they fasten their seatbelts. It's a pragmatic contradiction woven into the fabric of human existence. It shows that deep down, beneath the layers of faith and devotion, there's a recognition, perhaps unconscious, of the world's independent functioning, its adherence to physical laws, its indifference to human supplication. There's a part of the brain that trusts in antibiotics, forensic science, and structural engineering just as much, maybe more, than divine intervention, especially when the stakes are highest – life, liberty, security.
If they truly believed, fully, completely, without reservation... yes. The hospitals would stand empty, perhaps repurposed as temples of healing through faith alone. The police stations would be quiet, justice awaited solely from above. The courts would gather dust, disputes settled by divine arbitration or communal religious leaders. Societies would operate purely on faith, divine decree, and the expectation of swift, supernatural consequences for deviation. It would be chaos, perhaps, or perhaps a terrifyingly rigid order dictated by self-proclaimed prophets interpreting the divine will, enforcing belief with zealotry. But it would be consistent belief. And you don't see that. You see people praying and getting chemo. Seeking divine guidance and hiring lawyers. Thanking God and thanking the firefighters who saved their home.
So, this idea that anyone fully believes or fully disbelieves... it seems flawed. We all live somewhere in the messy middle, the shades of grey between absolute conviction and absolute certainty of absence. We all rely on the tangible world to some extent. We all have moments of doubt, even the most devout, when faced with inexplicable suffering or unanswered prayers. And moments of wonder, moments that lift the spirit and hint at something larger, perhaps even the most skeptical, watching a sunset or holding a newborn child.
But who fully believes... what do they become? Think about it. Someone who lets go of the practical, the logical, the evidence-based world entirely in favour of pure, unadulterated faith. They become... vulnerable, perhaps, to manipulation by others who claim divine authority. Dangerous, perhaps, if their belief dictates harm to infidels or non-believers. A saint, maybe, if their faith inspires acts of extraordinary charity and selflessness, completely detached from worldly reward. A fanatic, if their belief becomes a rigid, unforgiving ideology that supersedes empathy and reason. Someone fundamentally
They said it was a game. They didn't say I'd be forced onto the board. From the moment existence flickered into being, I felt the invisible push, the silent instruction: Play.
But I didn't want to. The rules made no sense, the objectives felt hollow, the stakes – whatever they were – held no appeal. Yet, there were no other options presented. Not until the grand finale, the permanent exit. So, I learned the motions. I moved when told, feigned interest, pretended to understand the intricate dance of ambition, connection, joy, and sorrow. It was a performance, a quiet rebellion hidden beneath a veneer of conformity. I played the rule, not the game.
I built a life, or rather, I assembled the required pieces: relationships, aspirations, a sense of self tied to experiences, possessions, feelings. I called these things "mine." They were cumbersome props in the play, but at least they were my cumbersome props.
Then came the Rejection. It wasn't dramatic in the theatrical sense, but it was absolute. A quiet, definitive closing of a door I didn't even fully realize I was standing before. And in that moment, the strangest thing happened. The pretense didn't lift; it became the only reality.
My old feelings, the ones I pretended to have while secretly resenting the obligation, simply evaporated. The quiet melancholy, the underlying resistance, the flicker of hope that maybe, maybe, something real might emerge from the role-playing – all gone. Like dust motes vanishing in a sudden vacuum.
Now, everything feels new, not in an exciting way, but in an alien, stark manner. The world is the same colours, the same sounds, but they register differently. They lack the familiar resonance, the emotional tint they once held. Everything I thought was "mine" – the memories, the attachments, the likes and dislikes, the very contours of the person I was pretending to be – feels entirely detached from the present self. It's like looking at an old photograph of someone I knew intimately but can no longer recall the name of. I feel nothing anymore towards any of it.
I am just here, existing in a world populated by strangers, even those whose faces I know. I observe their playing, their striving, their feeling, with a profound, unbreached detachment. I am a spectator to a play I am still technically a character in.
I spend my time just waiting. Waiting for the end of the act, the end of the play. Or perhaps, just pretending to live like a normal participant. I mimic the gestures – I nod, I smile faintly, I respond with learned phrases. But inside, there is only a quiet vacancy.
The irony is brutal. I don't want to be in this game for a second longer, yet the deep, visceral desire to live has been extinguished, taking with it the desperate need to end it. I don't want to beg for release, not even for death. The energy to even form the supplication is absent.
And suicide? The concept feels both pointless and impossible. It would require an act of will, a decision, a final, personal move on the board. But the "I" who might make such a move is no longer present. There is no driver for the vehicle.
So, I just am. Moving through days, a spectator in a borrowed body, in a borrowed world. I just wanna die, but without lifting a finger, without making a sound, without even a thought. Just... cease. But until that unbidden moment arrives, I will continue the quiet, detached performance, a player who lost their script and their self, waiting silently in the wings of a stage they never wanted to be on.
The fluorescent hum is a constant companion, a buzzing fly trapped in the sterile white box of my mind. It's a sound that drills, that insists, that refuses to let me forget. Forget what? That I'm here. That I'm breathing. That I'm… playing.
Playing. God, the word tastes like ash. Like the burnt remnants of a life I used to recognize. A life where playing meant… something. Joy? Competition? Connection? Now, playing is an obligation. A role assigned. A pretense stretched thin over the gaping void within.
The rules are simple, they said. Simple like a hangman's knot. Simple like the countdown to oblivion. Participate. Engage. Contribute. Or else… Or else what? I already feel the "or else." It's the lead weight dragging me down, the silence that screams louder than any threat.
I remember, vaguely, a time when I wanted things. Wanted love, validation, success, a goddamn decent cup of coffee. Now? The desires are gone, evaporated like morning mist. They were fuel, I suppose. Fuel for the engine of existence. But the engine has stalled, choked on the exhaust of disappointment.
They watch, you know. The Others. The ones who still believe in the game. Their eyes are hungry, expectant. They want to see me perform. They want to see me live. But all they see is a puppet with frayed strings, a ghost in borrowed skin.
I go through the motions. I nod. I smile. I offer polite, empty phrases. "How are you?" "Nice weather, isn't it?" The words are pebbles rattling in a tin can, devoid of meaning, devoid of connection.
Connection. Another ghost word. I used to crave it. To yearn for it. To build fragile bridges across the chasms of loneliness. Now, the chasms are my home. I wander through them, a solitary figure in a landscape of grey.
There was a… a rejection. That's what they called it. A failure to meet expectations. A deviation from the prescribed path. It was supposed to hurt. To sting. To ignite a fire of resentment or reform. But it didn't. It just… extinguished something. Snuffed out the last flicker of attachment.