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I am not a religious person. 

I feel that, having no idea what I believe in, and lacking the desire or time to explore it, means that I am not religious. 

But I have prayed. I have sent vibes up into the universe hoping for some kind of miracle. I have laid in bed, talking (in my head) to someone or something that might maybe hear or sense my hopes and dreams and needs. I’ve said “amen” at the end of these internal monologues. 

I don’t know if it does any good. But as my mom says about her incessant worrying, “if I worried and nothing happened then that’s fine, but if I didn’t worry and something bad happened, then I’d blame myself.”

Basically, you might never know if it does any good, but it makes you feel better to do so. 

I often envy those who are devout in their religion. The willpower, the determination, the outright positivity that God is there and He exists, and you do not question it no matter what, that’s something. 

But can that perhaps be also considered something else entirely? Stubbornness that what you believe (or were raised to believe?) is the one truth? Or the close mindedness to not accept that perhaps it is true, in addition to other possible truths?

I think somethings are real or become real because of our steadfastness and the power of believe in them. 

Perhaps if I believe hard enough, I can find a job in which I can be happy, or if I believe hard enough, I can be happy in my job. Maybe if I believe I’l be a good enough writer to make a living off that. Or if I believe, maybe I will become a teacher, someday. 

Or, as my husband has been known to say, “monkeys could be flying out of your butt.”