I grew up completely detached from religion. Rejecting the idea of it, even. Not understanding how anyone would believe in some divine creator, much less how someone would allow themselves to be guilted and governed by His rules. I saw it as a body of control and conflict and blame. In some ways, I still do. But I see now that things are rarely all bad or all good.
I've recently been relishing in my free will, going places alone, allowing myself the quiet, unhurried compassion my parents never gave. And I have noticed that I find myself drawn into old churches. They are, undeniably, beautiful. Sometimes in a grand, golden, organ-blasting way. And sometimes in a still, stale, patient way, with crumbling walls and worm-eaten wood, and the echoes of others who wandered in across the years. I have started, perhaps, to understand how the grandeur of it all, how feeling part of something much bigger than yourself, allows you to draw inwards, quietly, intimately - only yourself, and all that you cannot see, are listening.
As I have aged, I have definitely shed some nihilism. I am less afraid of others. I am less ashamed. I seek sensuality and meaning.
In the winter just gone, I sat in a pub with someone I was starting to love, both of us on the same side of the table. A teapot and a half-pint of cider between us. Warm lights and condensation hanging on the windows. We started talking about death, and how I was afraid of it. Afraid of everything ending, everything only existing because I exist to experience it. I think you found that silly and selfish. It made you feel better to think that those you admire lived and died before you, with you. You explained how people outlive themselves in others' memories, in the way they change each other. And now I like to think that I changed the world a little because I loved you.