A Season of Faith's Imperfection

Seasons as we know it baffle me. Something that has permanency etched all over it, yet remaining so transitional. They are primal in nature, our earliest memories remain attached to them, but their innate fleetingness doesn't leave much of an impression other a half-remembered post-card from the past. A sense of deja-vu is probably the most one can glean from the passage of seasons. Me, I believe the seasons leave their best imprints on our moods. My moods decide my seasons. They can range from delirious sunny ones, to overcast with doubt and indecision, to the tipsy and trippy akin to the first showers, to the keening acuteness of cold reason and the far in between balmy spring ones.

And this has been a season of faith's imperfection. For a cynic like me, having faith has always been a crown of thorns. The longing to step out of the darkness, from the miasma of doubt and dispassion is as strong in me as it is with me everybody. And for once I thought I belonged. For once I felt understood and as normal as I could wish it to be. I was happy. It was something I had been seeking and found serendipity. Yet all good things come to an end, often in a manner that make you doubt if they ever existed. It passed by leaving in its wake a cauldron full of unsaid thoughts, boiling resentment and a barely concealed anger and hatred. Blind faith had turned me blind. The light had dazzled my eyes. And it is time to slink back to my dark shell once more.