I don’t believe in a god. There is no one to blame, only us. There is no one to thank, maybe just the people around us.
I don’t believe in karma. There are only those lucky enough to get away with the horrible things they do and those unfortunate enough to be truly good people but go the rest of their lives unacknowledged, unrecognized, forgotten. Things don’t happen for a reason. They just do.
What I do believe in (and this is going to sound ridiculously cheesy but I’m trying to be blatantly honest here):
I believe that life is what you make it. I know it’s cliché. But clichés don’t become clichés for nothing.
I believe in love.
I am quite terrified of it, too. At it’s worst, you can literally — yes, I mean literally — feel when your heart has been shattered into countless jagged little pieces you can no longer put together. But at its best, you will find that the rest of the world is a blur and bliss is almost palpable. You’ll look like an idiot smiling to yourself, amidst strangers on the walk home from wherever, at the mere thought, memory or anticipation of the next encounter. You’ll discover a spring in your step that wasn’t there before.
It hurts you. It haunts you. It embraces you, changes you, inspires you.
It can create you. And it can destroy you.
There’s a beauty to this two-faced emotion. And whether you experience it at its harshest, cruelest form or are fortunate enough to stumble upon the side that’s insanely unbelievably wonderful, it’s a beauty that is inescapable. There is no denying its existence.