Six thirty. It has taken me some time and effort to sort out my thoughts on Christianity. I think there’s an instinct that responds to religious stuff around me, especially set to music. It’s an emotional knee jerk, very powerful, and it’s the basis for my delusions. Unamuno asserted that religion is a thing felt and not cogitated about; a thing of passion. But when I do think rationally about it, I can’t reconcile myself to my perceptions. I don’t know whether to call religion a superstition or something stronger. I grew up thinking it was the former. My mother used to reassure me that things on tv were only a story when I was a child. The key word is “child.” By the time I was nine years old I saw through the illusion. And I stopped believing in Santa Claus. I haven’t recalled my childhood like this in a long time. Am I to understand that the grownup perceives more accurately than the child? Wordsworth turns this on its head in “My Heart Leaps Up.” But can we take Romanticism seriously anymore? It’s the riddle of the Sphinx. This is just my own personal struggle with what I believe. It appears to me that humanity as a whole is growing out of its illusions and moving towards maturity, which means dispensing with superstition. It’s up to every individual how they want to believe, but for me, Christianity isn’t the answer. So I guess my problem is solved.