What I believe

I would rather live, believing that everything is a miracle
I guess you could call that spiritual
Sans the habitual ritual
That's lost its zest, and is practically recited in jest
Cold turkey, I itch and I scratch, as if missing a drug I used to ingest
Many a night my mind protests
Figures it all for naught, a nihilist in my darkest recesses
The feeling of emptiness only more acute, with attempts to fill the void with life and its excesses
Surely this doesn't account for modernity in all its complexity
In my search for an identity
I couldn't overlook our proclivity for faith, I don't believe we start and restart for eternity.