Many of us have lost our religion.
In its place, a void
of certainty,
of structure.
A generation
Believes in nothing.
No thing.
Some things.
All things.
We believe in nothing.
No rules about bacon,
No books with thin pages,
No oaths to be taken,
On Sundays we sleep for ages.
We no longer adhere to those rules, that magical thinking.
We’re more sensible than that.
We believe in some things.
We believe in black holes.
We might believe in aliens.
We believe in equality.
We might believe in gender roles.
We believe in love.
We might believe in wedding rings.
We believe in all things.
We know there is matter.
We know there is time.
We might know what matters,
But it's a pretty thin line.
Of course, you really shouldn’t talk about the weather if you don’t want it to rain.
It can’t hurt, right?
And I don’t really know what would happen if I didn’t hold my breath while driving through that tunnel, but do I need to find out?
Step on a crack you’ll break your mother’s back. (It’s true, it rhymes).
Crazy drivers come out under the full moon, and wishes come true at 11:11.
Pennies found on the ground will make your day.
Knock on wood, in this concrete world?
Routine becomes personal dogma.
Because if I believe it and you believe it, who would ever know?
The truth.
Or what is it.
Or if it even is.
When placebos cure headaches,
And mountains are made of molehills.
Who would ever know.
Rachel Roberts & Natalie Doud