I found that when some goal was pie in the sky, an abstract fancy, it was easy for me to have faith that it would one day come to pass. But when the hour came round at last, when there was actual potential for this thing to become reality, suddenly I could find only the feathers left where angels once dwelled, there in my heart. Where did my believing go? Or is it like the muscles in exercise that they must be torn in order to gain strength? That the egg must be broken in order for us to hatch? And thus the test: to regain what we once had, that the fates stripped away, to find the believing when the reasons suddenly make no sense. This is the fire in which we are tested, until we emerge as the rarest silver, as the most angelic gold, shining like light itself. Like we were blameless.

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The Great Blasphemy