It feels like a crisis of faith. Which begs the question, what exactly do I believe in? Goodness, love, loyalty, order amidst the chaos, all shall be well, God, truth, creation. Meaning: I believe in one good poem, warm ripe blackberries on a hot summer day, babies and puppies, music and grass that grows, my family, your family, all the art that matters to me or that matters to you, all the buildings and cities and country space that matters to me or matters to you, Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, both my grandfathers who are dead and who I never could love, but still I am them and they are me just as I breathe in Jesus�s DNA same as I breathe Hitler�s and Marie Curie�s and Goebel�s and yours.

We write, we tell stories, we make music, we do math, we paint, we build, we make. Perhaps I�m too scared to not believe in god. That�s what all the good rationalist atheists would have me think. I won�t deny that it�s a possibility. But frankly, I�m completely uninterested in hearing anyone�s reasons about why god does not exist or why god does exist or any of that garbage. This is not an intellectual exercise.

Inside I feel all ashy and as if nothing matters after all. After all, who do I love? After all, who loves me? And what the hell do I mean by that anymore? I love my parents. Well of course I do. They were/are excellent parents who treated me well. But what do I mean when I say I love them, when I think I love them? That I don�t want them to die? That�s true. That I want to talk to them? Sometimes that�s true. That I want to be around them? Again, sometimes that�s true. That I appreciate all they�ve done for me? Yes, of course. You see. I don�t know. I do love them. But how and why, etc.?

But really what I think or realize is that this, my life, is not a story. There is no order amidst the chaos and no guarantee that all shall be well. I pretend as if this, my life, were a story. I tell it to myself like a bedtime story. I tell it to myself as if I�m talking to god. But now I think, I can�t make this into a story anymore. I am a series of unrelated events. I am a series of unrelated facts. I am a series of unrelated molecules and genes.

But then there�s this: my dog. Now this, this creature, he is the truth in physical form. He lashes me to the here and now and when I�m without him I am lost in some gray purgatory where there is no truth no beauty no friendship no love.

I�m feeling melodramatic and self-conscious but there really is no way of explaining inner turmoil without melodrama, is there? And I�m tired of making fun of myself. Even as the little voice in back of my head sing-songs: can anyone say existential angst? Can anyone say clich�?

What can I do but keep doing this? Meaning, living my life, meaning, writing in this diary. But I tell you I want to give it all up, throw it all over for something else. I want to untie myself from all of this, this ash of my life and enter a new place clean and without history or expectation or knowledge of this life.