I am obsessed with life, and with finding the meaning of it all. This is why I adore poetry and literature. Certain philosophical quotes stick in my psyche and I can fish them out whenever I feel like I am drowning in my uncertainties. It is also why I love music. Certain songs, lyrics, instruments, and even sounds whisk me back to different places, different people and times in my life. Anytime I want to escape the present, I can turn on the stereo. But poetry, philosophy and music are not the meaning of life. It is just an interpretation. In fact, the older I get foggier the meaning of life becomes.
When I was little, I had no critical thinking skills. Most kids do not. We swallow up everything we are told by the authorities towering over us (teachers, parents) like candies. The first time I learned about "heaven" was in the fifth grade, in Catholic School. My teacher taught religion class every afternoon, and we discussed what happens when we die: we go to the pearly gates of heaven, guarded by St. Peter. Then we were asked to list every person that we wished to meet in heaven. I wrote my grandma and Albert Einstein. The list grows every year. I was so excited by the prospect of heaven: it is literally the promise of never-ending life. As a ten-year-old, praying every morning and evening was a legitimate trade-off for eternal happiness with my grandma and Einstein.
Then, critical thinking kicked in around middle school. I noticed a lot of inconsistencies in what I was being taught. The religious textbooks we used were also filled with propaganda, and I could discern this even as a child. For example, one true story we read about was about a boy who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. But then he found Jesus and decided to help people instead, so the boy became a missionary. I thought: don't doctors help people, too? Why did this boy whose passion was for medicine decide to live a poor, humble life? Isn't it enough to pray at morning and night in order to enter the pearly gates, or is this not enough of a trade-off? That's where religion gets scary. How much you are willing to sacrifice for some other world, even if it may not exist. This is why I never did, and probably will not ever find the meaning of life in a holy text or in a church. I can't sacrifice my earthly passions and pleasures for other worlds, because I sure as hell think any God that exists would want us to enjoy ourselves while we're here.
While I grow older and wiser each year, I try to learn more about the meaning of it all. Yet I have already found this gem: in music, in literature, in the stars and clouds. I can't force myself to be religious, no matter how much I will to go back to my childish naivety, where I believed everything that older people told me. I can only believe that we are being watched by an incredible force, more vast and mighty than can be imagined by the human brain. It is like trying to imagine how far the solar system is from other galaxies. You can't. You can only cherish the day and do things that make you happy.
When I was little, I had no critical thinking skills. Most kids do not. We swallow up everything we are told by the authorities towering over us (teachers, parents) like candies. The first time I learned about "heaven" was in the fifth grade, in Catholic School. My teacher taught religion class every afternoon, and we discussed what happens when we die: we go to the pearly gates of heaven, guarded by St. Peter. Then we were asked to list every person that we wished to meet in heaven. I wrote my grandma and Albert Einstein. The list grows every year. I was so excited by the prospect of heaven: it is literally the promise of never-ending life. As a ten-year-old, praying every morning and evening was a legitimate trade-off for eternal happiness with my grandma and Einstein.
Then, critical thinking kicked in around middle school. I noticed a lot of inconsistencies in what I was being taught. The religious textbooks we used were also filled with propaganda, and I could discern this even as a child. For example, one true story we read about was about a boy who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. But then he found Jesus and decided to help people instead, so the boy became a missionary. I thought: don't doctors help people, too? Why did this boy whose passion was for medicine decide to live a poor, humble life? Isn't it enough to pray at morning and night in order to enter the pearly gates, or is this not enough of a trade-off? That's where religion gets scary. How much you are willing to sacrifice for some other world, even if it may not exist. This is why I never did, and probably will not ever find the meaning of life in a holy text or in a church. I can't sacrifice my earthly passions and pleasures for other worlds, because I sure as hell think any God that exists would want us to enjoy ourselves while we're here.
While I grow older and wiser each year, I try to learn more about the meaning of it all. Yet I have already found this gem: in music, in literature, in the stars and clouds. I can't force myself to be religious, no matter how much I will to go back to my childish naivety, where I believed everything that older people told me. I can only believe that we are being watched by an incredible force, more vast and mighty than can be imagined by the human brain. It is like trying to imagine how far the solar system is from other galaxies. You can't. You can only cherish the day and do things that make you happy.
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