Thoughts give rise to

thoughts.

C.S. Lewis writes: "Do what they will, then, we remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy."

He attributes this desire to the creator's intention: "Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing."

A belief in God presupposes Lewis' claim. Purpose only exists for the purposed. Without the creator, Lewis, and all men, are left with objectless longing. If the universe exists by necessity of itself, and if we may only look to physical laws (necessities of themselves) for our origin, then why should this "desire which no natural happiness can satisfy" imply an object of fulfillment beyond this world? This desire might as well be an unintended evolutionary by-product (or, intended only by the laws of physics; "intended" doesn't quite seem to fit).

One might believe that matter/energy and the physical laws are eternal. Theism also requires a belief in a self-necessitating eternal. What other choices do we have? I don't think it possible for sane men to believe nothing.

Both choices carry a presupposition. Based solely on the existence and nature of these presuppositions, the mind will never find rational grounds for preferring one belief system to the other. At this natal stage, the choices are nearly identical. We must base our decisions on what comes after. What are the ramifications of our fundamental beliefs? If this argument is flawed, tell me.

Switching from fourth into reverse, Lewis' words conjured in my mind an image of an island with cliffs facing out to sea. This became my Western Isle (a direct influence of all the Celtic music, I suspect). The poem led to a (bad) drawing, which led to this vignette jotted beneath the picture, ringing of a captains log:

Star-date 621.73: Just kidding...

this vignette:

Our journey took us westward. With the wind blew fables of an island with tall cliffs facing out to sea, a place where a sailor might be happy to rest, a place where a sailor could be happy for stillness. They say that calm hills rest above the cliffs, hills planted already with grain. Of course, they cannot say how such a place could be. I suspect one of the deckhands picked it up at port; such far-fetched rumors are common. Yet, the picture hasn't left me. Before the men, I show a stern disinterest in their tales. "A product of your wishful imaginations", I say. But I cannot help but long for that place. I fear I burn worse than the the others. There's no balm for this!

I've decided to take a crewman's watch to earn their respect. Last night in the nest and under the stars I battled my fool's desire. The Sea is my home. She brings me freedom, the land takes. But then I considered: perhaps my soul drove me to the sea for this purpose; for only in my sea-wanderings might I find this Western Isle.