My footsteps along Flour Cask Bay. Remote. Silent. Peaceful. My kind of beach. Did I mention there was a dead sealion washed up on the beach?
Grass in the evening at Kingscote, near our campsite. Another deserted beach.
Seal Bay Conservation Park. The sea lions actually come out shore and take refuge amongst the vegetation. It reminded me of the shire of the Lord of the Rings.
Swans at sunset, near our campsite at Kingscote. I saw pelicans in the evening when the sunset and wanted to get a shot of one flying. When I went to the beach, there were no pelicans, but instead four swans mingling around the beach. I love this shot.
King George Beach. That’s me. I had to do a rock scramble to get there.
Kangaroo Island Kangaroo. Different subspecies from Mainland Kangaroos in South Australia.
Tammar Wallaby. Rare outside Kangaroo Island. Adorable little creatures.
Seals near Admiral’s Arch. Despite the hype about this location I did not find it that great. Was smelly. Still, my sister and father were really delighted from the appearance of the black seal pups. Little tadpoles that cuddled next to their mothers.
Father and Sister. Funfact: Sometimes I can go up to a year without seeing her. Or talking to her. Yeah.
The lighthouse near Admiral’s Arch. I think.
My father. I have never seen him so happy!
Emerald blue waters. At the end were 2 fishermen and the most amusing little dog.
This was taken moments after we got to Kangaroo Island. My father was just marvelling at the beauty of the golden fields (and pretending to be a scarecrow). We noticed there was a stench, though.
Turns out there was a Kangaroo slain, lying amongst the grass. Yikes. Looked creepily human.
Pelicans at Kingscote. A guy comes and feeds them everyday in the evening. I would not want his job.
Remarkable rocks. Sculpted by the wind over millions and millions of years, to render so specific a form.
Remarkable rocks. They are really quite spectacular. To think they have seen more of earth than the entire human race. Amazing.
Remarkable Rocks, slope to the ocean.Its great to get there before everyone else. You have the whole site of (Remarkable Rocks) to yourself.
Sea gull. This one is special and has an special story behind it! NSFI.
A bigger Sealion squabbles with a little one. Seal Bay Conservation Park. Its worth the money to pay to see them upclose.
Its not mentioned much on the guidebooks, but King George’s Beach really has some of the nicest photo-taking opportunities. This one of the arch is one of my favourites. I tried to get there, but I couldn’t.
More rocks. I love the vibrant orange.
Dad with rocks. Highlights of the trip. Worthwhile to watch the old man have fun.
Sea cliffs at Cape Borda. Kangaroo Island has such beautiful scenery.
I haven’t been to Flinders Ranges National Park yet, but for now, this is my favourite part of South Australia. Hands down.
The Silent Giant (Pictures Below)
At 1986 metres, Mount Bogong towers above every other mountain in Victoria.
It is seven in the evening. Daylight is fading. We trudge away from the safety of our Toyota Yaris, our home for the last 355 kilometres. The goal is simple. Ascend to the summit through the night. Plonk our tent at the summit plateau. Watch the sunrise and fire away with our cameras.
The walk begins in a forest, lined by lush vegetation. We cross several streams with bridges that are thoughtfully built for the bootless and hydrophobic. The path is flat and wide, lined with car tracks and the occasional clumps of horse manure. Before long, a well-worn sign to our right informs us that we are at the base of Staircase Spur.The route earns its name from its steepness – there are no stairs whatsoever. We put our weight forward and trudge on. We stop. We climb a hundred metres. We stop. Repeat.
Our thighs and calves are burning. Darkness, accompanied by a herd of black clouds has come to claim the mountain. The forest whispers, moans and creaks, heralding their arrival. Soon, streaks of lightning crack the sky, and a downpour ensues. How much longer? The website told us it would take just four hours to reach the 1986m summit. During that same amount of time we have been stuck in a muddy hell with no end in sight. Our grumbling gives way to silence when the path abruptly levels and we find ourselves staring at a menacing wooden structure.
Uninhabited and void of any life, Bivouac Hut (1,500m) is the hut in a slasher film – its windows are dark and soulless. I can imagine a corpse lying in there, and a serial killer watching us from amongst the bushes, biding his time. Yet, the furious forces of wind and rain leave us no choice. I take one deep breath and step into the hut. The rest follow, without saying a word.
Our initial impression remains unchanged. It is dark, having no form of illumination. Our small tungsten lantern fixes that. Only then do we see the two saws hanging from nails. And the brownish axe that lies conveniently beside the fireplace. Our minds are changed only when we open the cabinets: fellow travellers have left behind biscuits, food and sleeping bags as an act of goodwill in the shelves and cabinets.
Satisfied with the general safety of the hut, we dump ourselves on the floor to catch a breather and read the numerous declarations of love and arrival(John was here) carved on the walls. There are sounds of bewilderment as I pull my laptop out of my pack, but an episode of How I Met Your Mother and some granola bars calms everyone’s nerves.
Their twisted carcasses glow an eerie white under the moonlight and flank us on both sides. A graveyard of snow-guns, victims of a forest fire in 2003. Good sign. No other tree in the region is capable of growing at above 1,500m. We are close now. The trail is less steep. We quicken our pace. An uplifting breeze and the constellations are good distractions for the eyes. For the first time, the ascend starts to become enjoyable. The mountain has finally come to terms with our presence.
Gorge gap. We have reached the treeline. Ahead of us are two hills, one of them most certainly leads to the summit. It is quiet as we turn to look behind us. Far, far away, a tiny sprinkling of lights marks the town of Mt. Beauty. In the darkness, the lifeless snowgums we just passed masquerade as the Great Wall Of China, forming a white snake that slithers across the mountains, stretching to as far as the eye can see.
Our dreams of catching the sunrise have went downhill. We have lost sight of the snow poles that mark the track. Not willing to risk injury in the dark, we decide to make the best of our situation and set up camp. We pick an area sheltered by some rocks. I spend the next four hours snug and warm in my sturdy two-man tent, unbothered by the occasional gust of wind. It is the only time I am thankful I lugged 3.2 kilograms up.
Stirred by the cold in their bivvy sacks, my companions were first to see the morning sun. Awakened by their oohsand ahhs, I force myself to emerge from my tent. It is five degrees outside, but the blistering wind manages to invade the warmth of my jacket. Still, it is worth it. An orange glow peeks from behind an array of mountains adrift on wisps of pale cotton. We have got what we come for after all.
Eager to reach the summit, we leave our gear behind and head for the trail, now marked clearly by the snow poles revealed by sunlight. It is a good decision. The final climb to the summit is the shortest, but also the rockiest and steepest. Even without the weight of our packs, we find ourselves stopping frequently.
The summit plateau of Mount Bogong is dotted with small yellow alpine flowers growing haphazardly. Green beetles shimmer under the glow of the sun. Except for the lone hawk circling above, the entire mountain belongs to us. My tent is a blue speck on a hill of green. Knees sore, the wind stubbornly fights us with every step as we slowly strive towards the highest point. True to Mount Bogong’s obscurity, a nondescript pile of rocks with a wooden pole in the middle marks the spot. There is no information plaque. No words to congratulate us. No benches. No prescribed look-out spots.
Ironically, after walking 10 hours to escape from civilisation, our first instinct is to attempt a check-in at Facebook. Miraculously, one phone has spotty reception (well done Telstra!) and the four of us crowd around it excitedly as our companion begins searching for our location. Facebook, being Facebook, attempts to predict our location with autofill.
“Mt Hotham. 22,400 were here.”
“Not thats not it. Scroll down.”
“Down, down some more.”
“Ah, there it is.”
The Mount Bogong summit cairn.
180 people were here.
Tent: Eureka Mountain Lite 2 (3.2 kg) – Heavy, but performed well in the wind.
Backpack: Rogisi 65l Backpack – Adequate. Might need some cushioning on the shoulders.
Shoes: Timberland Classics (Kids version, haha, I have small feet) – Despite not being dedicated hiking boots, really comfortable!
Jacket: Some Wintertime Jacket from Singapore. – Sufficiently warm
GPS: Bushnell Backtrack - Miscalculated the trip distance by 1.5 km to read as 9.5 km. Otherwise useful to judge altitude and temperature and provide some form of direction.
Before I jumped right in and bought my Eureka Mountain Lite 2, I’ve had done very little research on tents. All I knew that there was very little information about it in the internet. I also figured that it was an obsolete model, given that a new model, the Eureka Mountain Pass 2XE appears in the same color. Why would you bother with the Lite 2 then? Well, for starters, the Lite 2 is remarkably cheap. I got mine for a mere $124 when it was on clearance at Mountain Designs in Melbourne. It also weighs 3.2 kilograms, which is heavy by most standards, but still lighter than its successor (3.5 kg).
Setup: Setting it up is easy and I figured it out the first time, taking around five minutes to do so. Two tent poles cross each other to raise the inner fly, before the outer fly is draped over it. The attachment points for the outer-fly to the inner-fly are colour-coded. It is a free-standing tent, so thats a plus if you are very poor at site selection.
Space: This tent is incredibly roomy. It could comfortably fit three people of small stature (which I am 5 ft 3′). I think two average-sized adults still would find it rather comfortable.
Vestibules: The Mountain Lite 2 can comfortably store 65l backpacks and a pair of boots in each of its two vestibules. There is more than enough room to cook.
Interior storage: There is a small compartment for gear storage, but no gear loft.
Ventilation: Because of its copious amounts of no-see-um mesh, ventilation is decent in this tent. I did get some condensation on the inner fly when the temperature was 5 degrees (41 F) once when two people were sleeping in it when it was raining (high humidity). To my knowledge this is a rather common amongst all tents. The condensation was not dripping, so that is fine.
Waterproofness: I have found that the Mountain Lite 2 is very good at keeping out the rain. The combination of its rainfly and high bathtub floor keeps everything dry and nice.
Durability: This tent is heavy for good reason. The materials are hard-wearing and can take a beating – they definitely do not feel flimsy.
My Verdict: Though I would not want to lug it up a mountain alone, with a friend it only becomes 1.6 kg per person, which is not too bad. Sure, there are many other two-man tents out there that are much lighter, but this one is a lot sturdier and does not break the bank. It might be a 3 season tent, but I do not have any problems bringing it to mild winters with some snowfall (it has snow valances!). This workhorse is incredibly affordable, will last years with proper care, and has decent all round performance.
Here is a video of the Mountain Lite in a Wind Tunnel Test. I would tell you what goes on in the video, but I believe its in Dutch.
There’s something magical about plonking your tent at the side of a mountain. The minty air rushes through your lungs and you forget about the pain in your legs. For a moment everything seems so insignificant. Bills, debts, arguments and the other legacies of modern day living. You feel so unimportant because there is something so large that hasexisted for millions of years, and will continue for millions more. You are just a post in a timeline that stretches for millenia.
I’ve never been so happy to be dwarfed by sonething.
The warm leaves of autumn, so beautiful even – no especially – especially in death. The secret dance they share with the wind. The child who runs and leaps upon his fathers back. The warmth of fresh chai latte. The students who make a stand. The feel of grass under my palm. Sitting in the shade of a tree. The magic of strangers I have yet to meet. The little bits of salty spices in soft shell crab sushi. Walking against strong gusts of win. The feeling there could be so much more out there.
and those glorious warm leaves of autumn.
Three boys walked down the junction to the tracks to the birds that lay beneath. The afternoon sun beamed down, casting hard shadows that offered fleeting moments of shade to the grass.
A pigeon lay quietly amidst the dust and sand. Its eyes were hollowed out by ants and its ribcage jutted from beneath grey feathers. But there was no blood. Just dust. And sand. The bird had been here for weeks – months even – lying in the same grotesque position. Belly up. Wings folded back. Barely held apart by its skeleton.
The boys take their time approaching it, studying it like a lost relic from another era.
To stumble upon a single death – real death – at 10 is a stupendous event. It is a concept so far flung to the children that it becomes intriguing. Death is the villain in the movie, thrown through the door by the hero and onto the ground, bleeding from the splinters embedded in his chest. It is the withered plant that Yeye stubbornly waters. It is the brown leaves that rustle as he makes his way home.
A graveyard awaits them. Broken eggs and wings scatter beneath the train tracks, the lesser known victims of public transport. It is quiet here and people seldom pass, but those who do indulge the birds with bread crumbs or offerings to Tua Pek Kong - a Chinese deity that oversees the land. The pigeons crowd around and peck furiously, squabbling and jostling for position, oblivious to the children.
The third boy picks up a fallen branch. It is the length of his forearm, and just a little thinner. He has seen death, and like all boys at some point of their lives, thinks of replicating it. Playfully, he flings it at the herd, expecting the flock to disperse with alacrity.
They do exactly so in a symphony of flapping wings and falling feathers.
All but one.
Neck curled towards the sky, wings outstretched, it falls on its back, writhing in agony. The wings repeatedly flutter against the dusty ground, dragging the bird in a confused semi-circle, squawking and screaming.
As quickly as it began, it stops.
One boy wept. Two friends stared.
One boy laughed.
In this day and age, you don’t watch something not because you have no access to it, but rather, you don’t know what to choose. HE RUIMING is here to provide some input on your viewing habits.
1. How I Met Your Mother
Yes. Mainstream prevails, and CBS’s How I Met Your Mother has proven itself to be LEGEN*…wait for it… It is the our generation’s equivalent of ‘FRIENDS.’ From 7 (soon to be 8) seasons of the adventures of Ted, Marshall, Lily, Barney and Robin, HIMYM is features a pretty large chunk of popular culture. Barney’s catchphrases, for example, are often mouthed by young, heterosexual men aspiring his promiscuous lifestyle*. ”Suit Up!” is one such exclamation. And certainly, use of the word ‘awesome’ skyrocketing has a undeniable, direct relation with the series. True story.
What’s is truly great about the show however, is that it is able provide fresh perspectives on the ordinary experiences of people. From long, butt-hurting road trips to unfortunate first dates, memorable and humorous stories are made. Its uniqueness lies in its ability to glorify normality. In contrast to something like Gossip Girl or Lost, HIMYM teaches us that you do not need to be filthy rich, somalia-poor or be thrust into unforgiving conditions to learn life’s most important lessons.
Verdict: Watch and continue watching because its good. And because everyone else is watching it.
2. The Walking Dead
Zombies movies are aplenty. Zombie TV shows? Not so. Why is that? Well, is not easy to make a story of people being chased by zombies that spans over 180 minutes. Eventually, there is only going to be a finite number of ways to kill the undead. Secondly, the scare value of Zombies remain stagnant after awhile. How do you fix that? AMC’s The Walking Dead cleverly throws in some drama. Best described as a cross between Lost and Will Smith’s 2006 movie ‘I am Legend.’ A multicultural group of people have to survive in a harsh reality despite their differences. Lost. Zombies. I am Legend. You could call it an social experiment of sorts featuring the undead and Rick’s Grime’s not-so-merry um…group.
Human nature, democracy and faith are visibly discussed in this series. Is man by nature good or evil? When pushed to the point of desperation, will idealists sacrifice their ideals for survival? What makes one life worth more than others? The Walking Dead seeks the answers. And, if you’re don’t like to analyse shows the way I do, dont worry.
Sit back and watch the guts fly.
Verdict: Intriguing story. And in case 2012 is indeed the year of the Zombie Apocalypse, there is no better time to obtain some inspiration.
NBC’s Community subverts the American high school drama genre by injecting old, middle-aged and Asians (go Asians!) into what is often a predominantly white/black territory. Cheerleaders and Jocks are sidelined as they make way for the ‘soft’ con-man, Jeff Winger and flawed activist Britta Perry as the main stars in community college. Joined by insecure Annie, pushy Christian Shirley, overtly-racist Pierce, bizarre Chang and the quirky duo, Troy & Abed. Similar to The Walking Dead, albeit in a significantly more light hearted manner, the show features a group of various origins and their various exploits. While How I Met Your Mother creates popular culture, Community regurgitates (in the form of Abed) and repackages it.
Verdict: Loveable characters and a cast with good chemistry make every 20-something minutes of Community a joy to watch.
And.. thats all for now. Stay tuned for Part II! What are your favourite shows?
* An irony because actor Neil Patrick Harris is a gay man.
Disclaimer: The following piece you are about to read is up to 99.3% fictional and has been modified for entertainment value. He Ruiming does not take responsibility for any similarity the characters have with real people, alive or otherwise.
Orchard Road was in ruins. Much of the former shopping was flattened from the relentless artillery shelling. The remaining malls that stood crowded together, like frightened children about to get flogged, solemnly waiting their turn. Cathay Cineleisure was one of them.
Cathay Cineleisure. Nine stories high when the war began. Now seven. David spent much of his youth here, chasing girls, watching movies and wasting pocket money away at the arcade – a young boy doing youngish things. Now it was almost empty, filled with only dusty signed, plastic prophets that read ‘CLOSING DOWN SALES.’
It was like watching an old friend waste away from cancer.
He sat in the empty atrium, amongst crippled chairs and abandoned pushcarts, recalling the days when this place smelled of popcorn and French fries. It was Tuesday. Not too long ago, movie tickets would go for a mere $6.50 on a Tuesday, complete with a huge cup of Coke and a hotdog topped with sweet American mustard. Student Discount, they called it. Those were much simpler times.
“Hey, David? What happens to our Facebook pages when we die?”
“Hmmm… you really think so?”
“Yes, I really think so. Who do you think is on Facebook these days? The internet is down, there is no electricity, no water, no food. Honestly, tell me Eugene, who the fuck will be on Facebook to write on your timeline?”
David was annoyed. Corporal Eugene, one of the few surviving members of his platoon, had a penchant for asking ridiculous questions. The only soul that could tolerate such buffoonery was Sergeant Matt, but he had been a victim of a landmine the previous week, his body scattered into little bits of flesh. The rest tried scooping Matt up with paper cups they found at McDonalds, but they gave up soon after.
“Too many pieces, Matt. Sorry, too many,” they shook their heads apologetically, and they went back to playing blackjack. Sigh, Matt, he was a good chap.
If only the enemy had taken Eugene. Loud, foolish Eugene. Perhaps David’s theory was true: perhaps the imbecile was part of the MKA’s plan to lower their morale, or at least, their intelligence, through his incessant chattering.
Matthew was the only one he had told about his hypothesis. They shared a good laugh whilst they watched their Orchard Road’s famous landmarks collapse under the brunt of mortars and bombs. He was a good chap, that Matt.
“Maybe some of those MKA troops and us have some mutual friends. You think that’s possible?” Eugene proposed.
The chubby corporal fell silent. David had given the wartime gesture for the need for absolute silence: index finger on lips, brows furrowed, teeth bared.
The conversation was over, truncated by an unmistakable rumbling in the distance. It was faint, but David had heard it too many times to foolishly dismiss it. It was the sound of death trampling over street signs and fallen lampposts, over icons and founding fathers, over helmets, broken bodies and dead bodies.
He crawled on his belly, stuck out his head out of one of Cathay Cineleisure’s many shattered windows. About 50 metres away, two T-90s rolled into the junction, dull armour absorbing the sunlight. Turrets rotating, they scanned the streets for potential prey. Behind the tanks, troops leapt from dusty trucks, their slate-grey uniforms blending effortlessly with the debris and concrete walls.
“They’re coming!” David hissed, alerting the rest of the platoon.
“Who?” they hissed back.
They threw down their cards and dispersed like mice whilst David scampered down a mountain of debris. Within seconds, he found himself on the streets, scrambling for the sewers.
For days the platoon had camped out in the old shopping district, waiting to ambush a much larger MKA force. It was getting boring. There was so much time that Lieutenant Lim had them dress up countless mannequins – complete with face-paint and helmets. He said the figurines were their guardian angels.
David dashed under a manhole cover into to alert Lieutenant Bill of the impending threat. The rusty ladder gave him numerous tiny cuts as he descended into darkness, each rung adding to his tally of scars.
The rumbling, amplified in the damp, dark underground tunnel, sounded like a thunderstorm approaching. It smothered the sound of David splashing through the water and sent rats scurrying towards him.
Ahead, a white light burnt dimly. David ran towards it, like he had rehearsed yesterday. But this time instead of the familiar chattering of friends, there was only silence. A man sat, alone in the darkness on stacked ammunition boxes, accompanied only by a florescent lantern.
“They’re here?” the lanky commander seemed to be expecting him. He stood up and motioned upwards with his neck.
“What do you think?” he asked.
David looked up. White pieces of putty were taped to the ceiling, connected by metres of detonation cord. The road above was now a thin sheet of ice, ready to shatter any moment with the click of a button. And their foes were about to tread on it.
“Yeah, sir. They’ve got tanks though,” he said, suspecting that Lieutenant Bill already knew.
“No matter. We’ll blow them to Kingdom Come. Well, I will, at least,” came the reply, accompanied by uncomfortable laughter.
David searched hard for words of encouragement, but could not find any. An uneasy silence, unmoved by men-at-arms or steel behemoths, settled over the two men. He stood there for several seconds, head bowed whilst staring at their soaked boots. How many soldiers died with boots on? More relevantly, how many of them died with soaked boots? And out of those who died with soaked boots, how many of them were heroes?
“David, its been an honour,” the young lieutenant finally broke the silence.
“You should go. Find a safe place. And remember the signal.”
Lieutenant Bill turned away and his face faded into the shadows, transforming into a faceless voice. His lantern crackled, its white light flickering, finally weakening from days of non-stop usage.
“See you on the other side,” the voice added, quietly.
With a solemn nod, David bolted for the nearest sewer opening. He took a last glimpse at Lieutenant Bill before making his way up to the surface. Propping the cover up with the tip of his rifle, he peered out warily as sunlight stung his eyes.
He was now about 100 metres from the manhole he came through. The rumbling was deafening, the enemy was going to pass by any moment now. He had taken too much time. He slid the cover open and dashed towards the bus stop and a pile of his fallen comrades. David felt a lump in his throat. For a second he wished he never volunteered himself. But he thought of Bill and Matt, and dived headfirst into the decomposing bodies.
“Safest place is the most dangerous place,” he repeatedly chanted in his head as the stench of rotting flesh permeated his nostrils. He pulled a corpse over shoulders to serve as cover. Private Firdaus. They had lost him to cholera just two days ago.
“At least, if I die here, it will be among friends,” David consoled himself.
Amongst his dead companions, he watched the rest silently reposition themselves in their hiding places. Most of them had taken roost up in buildings, well-placed to pick off troops unfortunate enough to wander within the range of their rifles.
David considered waving to let them know where he was, but decided against it as the first T-90 turned around the junction as infantrymen trudged alongside. He pulled a bloodstained uniform over his eyes, held his breath and watched the deadly parade with anticipation through the crimson-tinted fabric.
“You would feel nervous too,” he whispered to Jimmy and the rest.
From here, David could see their faces. The MKA soldiers were older and more battle hardened. Real, professional soldiers, not conscripts like himself. Around their necks they wore dog tags, trophies from the dead.. A few of them were holding SAR-21s, salvaged from the arms of their defeated foes.
They chatted in <Spanish>, laughing and singing songs, like a gang of boisterous schoolboys on a field trip. Their victories had made them overconfident, complacent, but most importantly, ready to die.
* It was not originally <Spanish> in the first writing.
When I attended a certain church service’s in the past, all I saw was masses of people putting their faith in a non-existent being. They hoped by putting their faith in some higher power, they could answer the torrent of questions life hurled at them; give meaning to the things encountered in everyday life. What am I meant to do? What will become of me? What is God’s plan for me?
Then, I saw it was that they were shirking responsibility. If something did not work out, it would be because it was ‘God’s plan’ for them. And so, God’s plan led many of my friends away from me. They disappeared from my life into cell groups and poured money into the bags of megachurches. I felt nothing. No loss, no remorse.
I always have, and always will believe, as William Ernest Henley (1849 – 1903 ) proclaims in his poem Invictus: I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. Always have, always will be. I believed that there was no such thing as God’s plan.
Furthermore, I could never understand the words they preached in church. They said I was born with sin, because some lady named Eve succumbed to her fruity desires millennia ago. They told me salvation had nothing to do with good deeds – Buddha went to hell, Gandhi went to hell and I was probably headed there too if I did not embrace Jesus. I saw the church for what it was – an organisation of people. Good people perhaps, but in the end, still people – not the perfect Gods they preached about.
I stopped believing in God for a long period of time. My friends called my King Atheist and the anti-Christ, both titles I find mildly amusing. But one should not limit their definition of ‘God’ to what one religious group preaches. There is Jesus. There is Allah. Sun Wukong, the monkey god of 72 transformations. There is Athena, goddess of wisdom and combat. Shiva, the creator and destroyer. Kali, the embodiment of time that overcomes the highest of beings. The benevolent GuanYin that answers all prayers. These are all gods and they should all be respected, as equals.
There are no faults with God. He or she is perfect. They did not give us rules to live by, they did not write books to document their legacies. Religion, on the other hand, is created by humans and will always be far from perfect. We are corruptible, vulnerable beings that have a propensity to hurt each other.
Recently, I started trying to believe in God again. Perhaps God is out there. He, she, or it may not conform to what is written by mankind, but God is out there. Does he hear our pleas for help? Maybe. I don’t know. No one truly does. They might believe he does, but that’s only what they believe.
All religions are equal because they are based on human faith. Each of them are different interpretations created by mankind. All roads lead to rome. All faith is blind faith.