A certain blindfolded evening I asked my friend if he was an atheist. We were out buying kebabs near a crowded railway station and it seemed the only thing to do.
Orange lights walked in and out of a perplexed night, to which no one really belonged. The crisp air, in which tired sighs and mosquitoes mingled, wore grease in a bow tie. And quite close on the heels of this particularly smelly sense of randomness, dashing in and out was a speck of mirth, an anticipation for nothing in particular, that crawled and stumbled on its way towards the window.
But somewhere, a huge, seamless feeling of symmetry surpassed it all, with a quiet rhythm permeating through broken doors and ending up at our feet, much like a deluded puppy. A silent justification for everything around us, a hidden geometry in the way the world heaved and hoped was slowly becoming obvious. Like someone was peeling the night away, carefully, layer by layer, to reveal a naïve, blushing core. And the moments lay inside out, bruised, blue and breathless.
Much as instruments await intention, faith, I feel awaits desire. We trust when we can, but we believe only when we want to. Or when a vast mechanism wants us to, and we fall in place. Or fall out.
See that’s the thing with faith. Its like this kaleidoscope and has amoebic patterns made out of colorful glass bangles. And the more you turn it, the newer its face. Can any of us admit to really not having any faith? Ever? It may have sounded different, but it was faith alright, probably disguised as the excruciating pain of hope. Trust hurts, and faith too comes with its share of ulcers. Meant to be dug out, stretched, poked, turned on its sides. Faith almost always asks us to comb the sand out of its hair. And in doing so, we completely lose ourselves in those delicate strands of tears and travel. Years pass by and before we know it, we are sand ourselves.
But I would like to believe in this ephemerid odyssey of faith. In becoming sand, I think we travel the distance between being the contents of an hourglass to the sprinkling on a beach. Intertwined with the city I feel, lies this little trick of faith. We keep it with our house keys, and therefore almost always end up losing both. Which is even better, for what else brings us closer to ourselves than a houseless, faithless existence? The calculated corners in which our life seems to collect keeps accounts, that is where a hidden order bills us.
Faith lies in the tea kettle that whispers long forgotten tales of passion. Faith belongs to soggy footprints on a pavement, it collects on the sheds of translucent windows, and gathers with the last rain of august. Faith is the unforgettable face at the third crossroad on my way to work, it’s the last ticket at the movie counter, the remaining runs in a cricket match. Faith is in the bottled jar of pickle grandmothers never trust us with, its in the lazy afternoons on an ancient terrace. Faith is pink, green, sequined, button less, blue and red. It is where I walk from, it is what I run into. It watches, is watched and sees through the rage of the sea. Faith is square, round, oblong, even oblique. It is the envied step sister of destiny.
Faith I believe, is the tetrahedron in a love triangle.
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