Jul 2013
Lately I’ve been considering clarifying my spirituality while trying to get a hold on my reality. My days are surreal as I peel away from the human race, putting on ratty clothes to save face and change pace to obtain grace in a place where it can only be found in a name anymore.
I’ve been bound to the imaginary floor of my conscious by fending off faith like false accusations. Thoughtlessness is the root of this mess, as I’ve yet to reboot my less than sincere concept of what steers me down the road of apathy and godlessness. It could be nothing more than arrogance that causes belief in the chance that we learned this dance of existence all on our own; but from what we’ve been shown, nothing can be known without a doubt.
So I strut with a straight spine and my head held high, staring into space while glaring at the sky. I shout at the darkness to get out of my substance so my stance can beckon light toward me to explore my soul and implore me to roll my stone away… but it’s grown accustomed to the moss.
Now, accustomed leads to stagnant and stagnant leads to combustion, which is something I can’t stand for; so I strive towards infinity by growing my affinity for aesthetic authenticity at a constant rate.
The debate rages outside my tarnished gates: Religion teaches hate, but faith can be great when man’s meddlings are left on cutting room floor. Love each other. Treat each man as your brother, each woman your mother. These preachings reach to our basic decencies, but detrimental thoughts are spread through our frequencies, interrupting the harmonious symphonies to which our species dances to each day.
Our hearts know the way, but our brains overcompensate for the seemingly irrational, natural compulsions pulsing us towards our actual emotions.
The notion that we were grown out of the unknown isn’t easy to swallow when the thought of being so along leaves you feeling hollow, but I find it hard to follow along when the almighty one smites men for placing their faith in the wrong plans.
The idle hands of man have branded faith with scandalous standards for eternal happiness, which is why I’m happy to dismiss what some call bliss. But seeing as I can no longer identify as an atheist, I want whatever god will listen to understand me when I say this:
We all miss our respective Mimi’s each and every day, and I hope that mine will see me again one day. But going to church each and every Sunday should hold no sway as to whether or not that is the case. Amen.
I’ve been bound to the imaginary floor of my conscious by fending off faith like false accusations. Thoughtlessness is the root of this mess, as I’ve yet to reboot my less than sincere concept of what steers me down the road of apathy and godlessness. It could be nothing more than arrogance that causes belief in the chance that we learned this dance of existence all on our own; but from what we’ve been shown, nothing can be known without a doubt.
So I strut with a straight spine and my head held high, staring into space while glaring at the sky. I shout at the darkness to get out of my substance so my stance can beckon light toward me to explore my soul and implore me to roll my stone away… but it’s grown accustomed to the moss.
Now, accustomed leads to stagnant and stagnant leads to combustion, which is something I can’t stand for; so I strive towards infinity by growing my affinity for aesthetic authenticity at a constant rate.
The debate rages outside my tarnished gates: Religion teaches hate, but faith can be great when man’s meddlings are left on cutting room floor. Love each other. Treat each man as your brother, each woman your mother. These preachings reach to our basic decencies, but detrimental thoughts are spread through our frequencies, interrupting the harmonious symphonies to which our species dances to each day.
Our hearts know the way, but our brains overcompensate for the seemingly irrational, natural compulsions pulsing us towards our actual emotions.
The notion that we were grown out of the unknown isn’t easy to swallow when the thought of being so along leaves you feeling hollow, but I find it hard to follow along when the almighty one smites men for placing their faith in the wrong plans.
The idle hands of man have branded faith with scandalous standards for eternal happiness, which is why I’m happy to dismiss what some call bliss. But seeing as I can no longer identify as an atheist, I want whatever god will listen to understand me when I say this:
We all miss our respective Mimi’s each and every day, and I hope that mine will see me again one day. But going to church each and every Sunday should hold no sway as to whether or not that is the case. Amen.
