Today, I see religions as stalls, shelves from which one helps oneself, boxes into which one plunges one’s hands to pull out elements that clutter our minds.
When a house has no soul, the residents redouble their efforts to acquire furniture and decorative accessories in order to organize an interior space, to adorn it with a coherence it does not possess. Each wave of purchases in dedicated stores adds another layer of elements to reinforce a previous touch or counteract an overly prominent one.
This construction of aesthetic harmony is artificial and, in reality, reveals the fluctuating identities and the quests for self-discovery that plague the residents.
When the soul finds its home, all decorative concerns vanish, and the house itself disappears.
Religions are stalls, but what they sell is either laced with poison or a cheap item masquerading as something polished and expensive.
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