To Zanarkand

 The older I get, the more I struggle with my beliefs. This feels opposite of the rest of the population. Their thoughts harden and set as age takes them down their path whereas mine battle in a Great War. A part of me desperately wants to believe. I see the wondrous things this life holds and know that I should believe in the maker. All the diversity and the perfect concoction of elements that came together for me to even write this out for you. This is the maker’s divine will, is it not? 

I step into the church of my parents and feel the presence of their belief. I see the richness and the trappings that adorn statues and stained glass. I see the revered fall to their knees in prayer to these statues and stained glass lest their adoration win them a better life. I don’t understand this barter system and know that I have nothing. All the same, I want nothing…at least nothing I feel the divine would be able to grant. My problems are issues with social injustices. We face brutality from those in power as the high only seem to punch down. When you’re at the bottom it’s hard to see anything but fists. My parents pray for deliverance. I stand and watch as they are met with silence.

The day they dared say their hardships were my fault because I didn’t believe the same as they, I left. It’s better to not be a constant disappointment, but instead, fade to a memory of a disappointment. The maker ignoring their cries is not on him. The state of their home and their people is not on society or on the abhorrent quality of education for their children. 

However, somewhere within me knows there is something bigger that’s just been waiting. I can feel it deep within when all hope has died and the world feels too cold. It holds on to me just long enough that I can stand again and keep going, alone. It leaves before I can question it or accuse it. It lifts my heart and fills me with understanding letting me know that despite everything, I am one of the maker’s children. One day I will stand before him and demand to know why. Why are my people treated this way. Why are my cousins left in the dust to die with his name on their lips. 

I’ve managed to carve out a life on my own outside of the city. I’ve managed to meet some of my own kind that have their own gods. Different gods. Gods that have also abandoned them. They paint their faces and treat me with distain. I am an outsider though our features are identical. I ask them a lot of questions and answer what I can of how my life was in the slums. They hope that one day their gods will return. At least they have a reason for why their cries are ignored. They know their cries are but echos and they are just hearing themselves. I tried to teach them of the maker. Their hard set minds cannot listen and so the distain only increases.