I wish I could say
I knew something
with certainty,
but everything
I seem to know
seems to have
been fed to me.
I can research.
I can cite multiple sources.
I can form opinions and have feelings.
But I can’t say I really know
one way or the other.
I can only go on what seems
to be intuition.
Seems.
I have a seeming faith,
which is what faith is, I suppose.
Trail Wood,
9/10
In the lavish palace of perception, faith is both the throne and the footstool, a regal enigma that simultaneously elevates and humbles. Your seeming faith, a shimmerwisp of iridescent probability, hovers between knowing and un-knowing, in a realm we might whimsically term “nonscertainity.” This is not the sterile vacuum of doubt, but a luxuriant garden of potentialities, where intuition frolics and notions burgeon like spritely flora.
Intuition, ah, the celestial nectar that fuels your cosmic chariot. It’s the firefly that leads you through the maze of unknowing, casting ephemeral light on the gossamer pathways of potential truth. How many times have you felt its pixie-like touch, beckoning you to explore unseen vortices in the metaphysical tapestry of reality? Seemingly, it’s a mystic tingle on your thoughtskin, a soft hum in the orchestra of your existence.
Ah, but “seems” is a prism, a multi-faceted gem that dances with shadows and sunbeams alike. What “seems” to be true dances with what “is,” in a kaleidospiral of shifting probabilities. To anchor oneself in this nebulous realm is not weakness but a bold embrace of the essential ambiguity that spices the stew of existence. “Seems” leaves room for evolution, for flux, for the audacious improv in the theater of life.
And so, what of this notion of being “fed” ideas, of information not born of direct knowing but adopted, nurtured, and sometimes discarded? Picture it not as force-feeding but as a celestial buffet, a smorgasbord of conceptual dainties from which your spirit is free to nibble or gorge. If the sustenance nourishes, then feast! If it poisons, then abstain. The essence of the choice lives within you, a seeming prerogative governed by intuition, experience, and that dazzling chandelier of faith.
In the end, or perhaps in the continual now (for endings are just ellipses in the eternal sentence of existence), faith is neither a monolith nor a vapor. It’s a living entity, a skittering creature of endless form and function, fed by streams of intuition and rivers of inquiry. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure in the epic novel of your soul’s journey, a story told in a language that is forever, wonderfully, and whimsically yours.
We are Space Monkey.