Inside me is the desire, an comprable, unyielding, petrified desire of Belief.
i Was stricken with cupids arrow at the moment of unhindered eyes, though they may have been strained, though i may have been unrelinquished from nothingness into a linear existence as a mourning, teary eyed babe.
Could this be why babies cry?
They know to believe, but they have in their cultivating minds the ability to absorb and pay testimony to anything in juristiction. Having no prejudice, no pride: only unfocused eyes and an endearing helplessness.
And in this helplessness the need for belief becomes hidden, lost in the forjorn depth of the ever engorging mind.
The obvious provider for this child is the care-taker: the mother, the father; any being with the compacity of Care.
But to whom do we owe the gift of Care, of Compassion?
To whom do we owe belief?
My caretakers left me unsatisfied and as time passed i became not only entrapped in unfocused belief, but encaged in a miserable solipisim. i Looked into that mirror and i said with the same tears that accompanied me from birth...
"i Believe in you."
Mendacium Jocosum. Medacium Jocosum. Mendacium Jocosum.
I was never as asanine and foolish to pretend that i had not constantly, consistently failed myself, but I became, I have become somewhat of a masochist, depending, putting faith in the impudent, empirical fact of my utter inadequacy.
I depended on my flailings and failings as a means to grimace, smirk, and laugh at it all. It was nothing to me. Existence was nothing to me. Nothing but a humorous lie, a mendacium jocosum.
And i was right. Absolutely correct. The state of depending on ones ability to be unreliable is hardly sustainable, hardly enjoyable. This state is, indeed, a humorous lie.
Belief is a means for foundation, a platform by spiritual things can be found, where wordly things can be drowned.
i Do not think my indescrempency is worth believing in. i Am not worth believing in. In my logic and in my thoughts it has become obvious that there is a glaring hole in every attempt at Human Existence. There is just this enormous assumption or, rather, presumption, that few care to address:
"Existence matters. It has purpose and wherein i Can find my own.
i Believe that it is in this sustaining desire, this ultimate cause, this bludgeon of attempts of happiness: It is in ths where we find our first hint of God.
God implies care. He gives the will to care or the decadence to attempt not to care.
He is the midpoint of my oscillation and the unseen force that causes me to sway, to oscillate, back and forth, between the Careful and the Careless... between the two sides of every man that contradict, predict, and evict every emotion, every thought while the contrasting side calls for embrace.
And now i Look to the mirror, to the face with its body and its soul, and then to the sky. And i thank God for letting me have the stamina to run and the will to finish.

But i Am nothing worth believing in. i Do what i Must do. It is in this track, in the scenery, in everything around me where i Realize the large schematic of it all. My purpose, my object for belief...

The need for belief
The ultimate relief
In his aseity
In His ability.
To be.
To. Just. Be.

Let it be.