There’s something beautiful and poetic in chanting “Raise, raise, and raise your voice. He who chants, forever rejoice!”. Your voice will break time, the impossible, and you’ll live forever. Something beautiful, poetic and false, which is why it’s so especially suitable for chanting in this long awaited occasion.
He knew his situation was unstable. His mind has deduced, quite reasonably, that faith was illogical, unreasonable, and that logical deduction itself points more concretely towards proof of non-existence than existence. But he felt God, so he believed in him. The problem is that that same mind wants to explain that feeling of God to external factors, not internal ones: prevailing societal norms, an outwardly religious medium, a conservative upbringing, and the rituals, which, the closer he observed, the more affirmed and cert was his faith, and, inversely, when neglected, the more he became doubtful and uneasy; those, his mind argued itself, were the origins of his faith, not his own true feeling of a deity.
To arrive, using his mind, to the conclusion that he must not use it to find God, is a challenge he knew he will lose one day; it is only a matter of time.
On a different note, his humorous side couldn’t help pointing out the fascinating paradox in what he was doing: his mind concluding that disbelieving in itself was the only way towards a belief in God. A tongue in cheek position, not unlike someone from Crete proclaiming everyone from Crete are liars.
He really does love himself. He, however, had enough wisdom to know it is a trait he must hide from everyone. So he never ceased mentioning how much he loved himself. No one believes this kind of talk, so he kept saying it so they wouldn’t cease not believing it. He tells them so they never know; this is an innate smartness, no doubt.
It’s not that he is without feelings, the truth is his feelings are as spontaneous and natural as everyone else’s. He truly feels none of them, though; something always snatches him away from the feeling that could be, and stands him on its edge wondering: why this? Watching the phantoms of his self that beg and reach for it, fruitlessly; so near, yet so out of grasp. He surrenders to a vortex of self he knows well enough its gifts are only worry and sleeplessness. When she told him shyly that she loved him, he never forgave himself the happiness he wouldn’t feel; he would later imagine he saw it float past, ungraspable, untouchable, wishing he’d drown in it and drink and inhale it to a stupor. Instead, he wondered about things he no longer remembers; or wishes to no longer remember.
It’s not that his feelings are cold, on the contrary, his heart is a fiery pit of care and gentleness; and he’s too occupied with it to feel anything.