Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

by Cyrus Mistry

elaborate systems of belief have been concocted and espoused over the centuries by man merely to buttress this sad need for meaning; indeed to make life’s transience bearable.

Hope, that palliative of every human suffering: in desperation, we cling to the flimsiest of straws.

So much for the miracles of faith.

The longer the human soul swims in that pool of faith, soaking in the effulgence of its own dreams and longings, the more its need for rationality recedes, its very preoccupation with reality. Excuses are made for every frustration or impediment that doesn’t quite merge into the perfect blueprint of miraculous resolution already etched into one’s hopes and prayers: thus, there’s never any scope for disappointment. The person becomes blind to everything but the bewitchment of his own beliefs.