Kealey’s Campus Confessions

I often wish I could believe in God. It’s impossible to write about religion and not have folks on both sides of the Christian fence wielding their moral pitchforks and pointing the finger of outrage. But hear me out, and then of course, wield away. If just for a moment we take out the scarier bits of religion (the rules, damnations and the bits about the burning), there is actually something super mint going on in this faith business. It must be lovely to wake up in the morning and believe that you will be unconditionally loved in this life and the next. That must lend a calming wholeness to the otherwise pants-fillingly awful experience of life. Imagine an existence in which one can quickly shrug off any disaster with a chuckle at God’s plan. “Ah yes, I did fall under a bus and lose both legs on my way to hand in my dissertation, which I consequently failed. And yes, I was electrocuted in the Harry Fairhurst whilst photocopying a book. But everything happens for a reason and God has a plan for me.” It must be wonderful. And I wish I had that.

In lieu of a friendly hand to pat me on the head and tell me I’m loved, I’ve decided the only way to find inner calm is success, and human love. The problem with human love is it sometimes decides it prefers someone with bigger boobs, and goes off with them. And the problem with success is my own spanking mediocrity. Right now aged 19-23 at University we haven’t failed yet. At this moment, we can do almost anything. I could decide I want to be a politician, and you never know, I could be PM (may need to edit some old articles). Or I could cross my fingers, wiggle my toes and relentlessly tweet Caitlin Moran until she gives me a secret potion and lets me transform into her/ becomes my friend and tells me how to crack the business whilst we plait one-another’s hair. You could discover something/make something/build a business and be billionaires/cure cancer. Or discover an enormous pair of breasts under your bed and become Kim Kardashian. You never know! We’re young! We could stumble into success!

But in a few years time we won’t be so young. And what happens if we don’t make it? What if all the hundreds of budding playwrights I know go off and fart their way into pffffffffffft? What if we become the sad old men in the barn crying over their guitars and blaming their parents? And then we die. I don’t really have a point. I just wanted to wallow as I sit staring at the Minster, wishing myself into a faith in which I’m loved for just… being. You see those ten fingers? Grown in God’s image. That’s right. SIGH. Oh well. Never mind. I should probably spend more time not failing my degree now. And possibly hug someone.