Believers

He believed. He believed deeply and strongly. He believed in the power of human reason and the timeless power of emotion. He believed that he was the master of his own fate and independently chose his own steps along the path of life. He believed in dreams and the fulfillment of dreams, in the constellation of great ideas and the pathos of words. He believed in love at first sight, in the common destiny of humanity stemming from some ancient destiny, and in the calling of an individual to blossom into a flower of glory. He believed, but he lacked faith.

A fluffy blanket of snow covered the city streets, shimmering in various shades of blue. A cool winter breeze gently stirred the tree branches, then gently caressed the faces of the occasional passerby. The brightness of the day slowly receded, and the first stars began to appear in the sky. Somewhere in the distance, in a picturesque landscape drawn with snowflakes, amidst the din, the passing cars, and the sounds of feet on the frozen ground, the bells of an old Gothic cathedral could be heard. "I'll come in." He entered the pub. He warmed his bone-chilling hands by rubbing them against a mug of mulled beer. "I think, therefore I am, I am because I want and I have what I want." He believed he was the master of fate, a seasoned player of life, dealing the cards. He believed in the happiness he could create for himself, in good fortune and serendipity. He believed in his divinity and revelled in it. He was wrong.

He trudged through the icy desert, across a sidewalk covered in a thick layer of slippery ice. With each step, he came closer to his goal, but all the time he teetered on the thin line between fall and balance. Finally, his shoe buckled, and his body collapsed and fell limply to the ground. He was about to rise, about to summon enough strength and determination to get up, when suddenly someone grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet. "Yes, son, remember, the first hundred years are the hardest. Push the stone to the top, then descend the mountain, run carefree and effortlessly." He managed to look into its eyes. He saw the glowing fire, felt a piercing warmth, a strange, indescribable aura. Then all he saw was the back of the retreating man in the brown habit. The stupor quickly passed; he had important business to attend to, very important. He later attributed it to physiological needs, to the impulsiveness of his body, over which he had no control. He sought justification to himself. He didn't know why. After all, women of easy virtue delight in shameless acts. They must like it, because it's surely good for them, and what's good is, after all, moral. Morality is permissible. He had done nothing wrong. He believed in love for one's neighbor, in universal tolerance for what is good and what is evil, and in the validity of the infallible human mind. He told himself he believed in all this nonsense. He didn't know how wrong he was.

A black sheet of night draped the firmament, and stars guided the travelers across the sky. Snowflakes fluttered against the car window, only to fade away with the wisps of the windshield wipers. He sat inside, behind the wheel. His mind was elsewhere. He drifted somewhere on a sea of ​​memories, searching for a peaceful haven. He saw her, saw her in the arms of another man. After all, they were just acquaintances, united by a shared belief in sex without strings attached. Nothing more, purely physiological needs. So why did his heart ache, why did his soul bleed, why did his thoughts whirl, and his hands tremble in an anxious grip... One careless move, one too narrow a turn, one too many cars... He believed in his reliability, the infallibility of his driver's license, in the safety of the streets. He was wrong.

A dark wall of tears, a dark wall of a forest without trees and a sea without water. The sky was black. There was nothing, nothing to see. He knew where to go, where to step. He walked confidently, straight. He stood before the fire. He couldn't see it, but he felt it. He felt the warmth permeating his entire body, from head to toe, filling his soul and healing his heart, stemming the bleeding of memories.

A bright ray of sunlight filtered through the hospital window. It brought a new day, gently caressing his face, gently wiping the sleep from his eyes. He vomited out all his faith, all his ideology, all his life. He vomited and wiped his mouth on the pages of the Bible, searching for justification, the cause of misfortune, the reason for all creation. He wanted others to suffer as he did, to suffer with him. He reveled and drowned in these visions. He believed, incidentally, in equality, brotherhood, in the principle, if not one for all, then at least all for one. He believed in the universal conscience of the entire nation, the unity of souls, in one original sin, in the common ass of the entire communist society, which now was to receive the punishment of the belt. But it didn't, only he received it. He believed in the idea of ​​egalitarianism, but in believing it, he was gravely mistaken.

Days, weeks, months passed. A whole year passed. The sun had managed to rotate the appropriate number of times through the spiral of the four seasons and return to its proper place. And everything seemed the same, everything seemed to be in its proper place, flowing as if from ancient destinies. But he didn't regain his sight. He didn't regain it despite treatments, surgeries, or even his faith. Anyone who thought everything was the same would be mistaken. Everything had changed.

Light slowly gave way to darkness. The snow-white carpet faded into space, reflecting the ever-darkening mantle of the sky. The lights in the houses slowly came on, and the city lay to sleep. He walked alone, defying prohibitions and commandments. He saw nothing, but he was guided by fate. Like a child holding its mother's hand and guided by her wisdom. He knew where to go, even though he saw nothing. He believed. He fell on his back, arms outstretched. He fell crosswise onto the floor of the Gothic cathedral. He felt the monumental vaults of cool stone speak, he felt the taste of eternity, he felt that all-encompassing, omnipresent warmth. He who endures forever and in eternity, and is Eternity itself. He knew that when they fell silent, the stones would speak. And he wept, deeply and sorrowfully, poignantly and humbly, sincerely and nostalgically. He knew he wept out of faith. And he was not mistaken.