Religion's Pool

We are born into a gloomy bay. Blind and knowing only what we are shown. Those ahead, their hands are grasping for anything, but return only slime. Knowing not what they seek, they relish the feeling. Larger hands guide us away, towards reed pools filled with spines and pearls. Around these we gather, thrusting our virgin hands into the abyss, with a hope beyond precious hope that a pearl will be unveiled as we open our hands, only to find bristles and stones.

We wade prostrate our fingers feeling for any flotsam that might come our way. By chance we find the reaching hands of another passer by. Entangled we float, collecting each other. Each grasping and searching yet never finding. We form whole drifts, each unique in our writhing. Every part a chance to reach for more. Yet none are grasping that precious peal.

We stumble and fall, a misplaced foot upon a slippery stone. Diving in we see nothing, hear nothing and wonder, is this what we were searching for? Hands around us pulling us free. Air refills our lungs, our flailing hands grasp for all we can. Rocks and thistles are all we find.

Angered and blind we thrash but held fast. We are told to search more gently, to keep our calm. We will find what we need in time, just as those of old. So we seek the thing we do not know. Our fingers grasp and pull occasionally a heavy stone.

In time we learn to use the stone. A point of haven, a refuge from the spurs. But another stone has been found. Theirs is like ours but somehow greater they declare. We try and find if this stone is a mirror of ours. All the same, save for a few bits of life dangling below. In this do we find our treasure? But no, the stone falls away again, pushed by stronger hands. Why not stay together? Greater hands twist and split, push away, we all are told to push away.

Alone again wandering, why? Our hands feel through the grime finding nothing more then more tines. We sputter and sink, wondering what lies beneath. A last final claw before we open our maw. No hands to save us as we drown.

But could it be, my last grasp has it all? My fingers pull away from my palm revealing my last found. I dare not see it for if I were to drown, then all would be gone nothing would ever be found.

I feel for the shape, perfectly round. It is what they have lost, now I have found. I look upon its form as I drown. It is nothing, nothing to be found? My mind reals looking for something sound. Now I find, the lost gem was never there, it was always them.

I tear for the surface, finding my air. My eyes open and all around, I see nothing but the lost, hoping to be found. I step toward the only shore I see. Upon reason, I am finally free.