I’ve been thinking about books and the time when I used to have the time to read them. Growing up, I would read every day, every evening before going to bed, sometimes during car rides from my mother’s house to my father’s house. I would break my leg skiing (okay, I only did it once) and stay at home every afternoon after school, rereading my favorite fantasy series twice in two months because Nintendo’s games got boring after a while. All of this because I loved living in those books, I loved the feeling of building a world in my mind, with good characters and bad ones, good moments and anxious, page-turning ones. I lived in the Elves’ forest of Eragon’s world for a while, then I lived in Narnia, at Hogwarts, I even traveled on Ulysses Moore’s boat to past times and faraway places. It felt great. However, if what Berkeley claims is true, I feel like Saint Thomas in John’s gospel: I will not believe it until I see it. Evidently, I do not have enough faith to believe in an entity capable of building this Universe just like Christopher Paolini created Alagaësia. I’ve always found Thomas’ doubt to be necessarily rational, also; how can I believe in something I cannot comprehend at least partially? And how can I believe in it if I don’t have even the smallest mean to investigate it? Someone might argue that the Bible perfectly constitutes the proof of God’s work and will, but we don’t know where it comes from, who wrote it, how, when; we don’t have the basis to start analyzing the Bible as truthfully as we can. I guess I’m a little Cartesian in this matter.