I typed this piece up on my computer and tried to save it as “Untitled” since I hadn’t thought of a title for it yet. I was unable to save it.
I failed to write because writing felt much like a selfish thing to do. Who really wants to read your innermost thoughts? The self-criticism was relentless until I remembered that my favorite authors once thought the same thing.
Do you believe in ghosts, angels, or demons? Is the devil real? If so, who can save us? Will there be one?
Why are there so many questions? This is the mind of the anxious. The mind that never ceases to think. This mind can be dangerous. This mind is untamed.
Is there a such thing as limbo? Can i limbo between religions? Can I be spiritual without being religious? What does that even mean?
Are you able to understand the cosmos and quantum physics but can’t calculate the change you receive from the cashier at the grocery store?
Have you ever been force fed a religion only to question it and totally lose yourself?
Is it okay to be lost? Is there really joy in not knowing?
How do we be in it but not of it?

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