10/4/16

Many things race through my mind.

[...]

If I am made by God, and he knows me, then he can make me happy. But I lack faith these days.

I remember the days I would look around in wonder and be amazed at life: where I am, how I am, the perfect puzzle of life that just flows, even if we broke it.

The absurdity of life, the arbitrariness of it all. How skin deep the things we hold onto are. How everything is so just because the real main character of life wanted it so. He wanted to write a story, and we're the characters he wrote. How real and immediate our fiction seems: a story written by the highest hierarchy of authorship and creation. Perhaps it is real; as real as real can be.

It's liberating at the same time as it is... disabling. To know that nothing in this life matters past a certain degree, where our roles as characters inside the story end.
But if God is real and his words are real, then truth matters no? That's kind of redundant. lol. When heaven and earth pass away, all the shallow things we hold onto, his word shall still remain as the only reality.

So I guess the opposite is true as well. That this life does matter to a degree, and even beyond that: that what we do in this life matters.

I'm a philosopher. I'm a photographer. Shout out to Shane Dirty.