"'Truth is strange," you know, "stranger than fiction' - besides being more to the point" - Edgar Allan Poe

February 06, 2006


Dear God,

You've killed my friends for no apparent reason.

You've watched without reaction while millions across the world squandered their lives away to meaningless pursuits of answers that you've refused to provide. Who are are we? Where are we from? Where are we going? By letting us stew in our own misrepresentations of this philosophical bullshit, you've neglected to see that we now pursue the golden cow that provides a temporary relief for unreasonably large amounts of insanity.

You refuse to answer the only tool of permanent satisfaction that you yourself provided, that of prayer. I don't mean stuff like a new car, or safety from nonexistant terrorists, I mean simple pleasures like peace of mind, a satisfied stomach and a body that can bear the next 24 hours that preced every previous 24.

You let Princess Diana die.

It shames me to say that you're the biggest embarrassment that mankind will have to endure for the rest of humanity. You refuse to even prove your own existence. The benevolent VS malevolent argument can go on for a while, we don't care, but can you understand how many troubled souls will be pacified just to know that you haven't abandoned us? All we live by now is random lore of the past that with every passing day only seem like the ramblings of a demented mind that too many people took seriously in a time when the presence of a higher authority was felt needed.

That time is still felt. And you're not living up to the promise.

I know the words, but I can't really speak them to you. I feel pity when I see millions of people still hampering on a tiny flicker of hope that burns perilously close to being put out. The same goes for belief in a future where 'everything will be alright'.

Explain to me why I should be giving a fuck.

In anticipation of an answer,


"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. "
—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

No. 16 on the list of "100 best first lines from novels". A lovely list.


Last night, got really pissed off and supremely bored at the same time, so auto-ed myself to a booj-shop somewhere outside Chittaranjan and ferry-ed back a quart of Romanov. Got drunk, and in that haze, wrote this-

Let my world be filled with the light of a million hues. And let that light be flowing through every stream of valid consciousness this fragile body has to offer; this, while I offer my body to you, oh eternal.

There are few answers to this question of life. Fewer still, to this glorious continuation that you call 'living'.

I have no idea what it means.


Ganja said...

When are you getting back here? Bitch, you're drunk!

Finch said...

without the quotes on living, it made sense.
actually, an irony CAN be introduced there.

i dont think you want to dissect what you found senseless.

have fun.

Mukka said...

My entry has been posted as a friends-only post. Check it out, though I still think it doesn't qualify too much because it's neither happy nor funny. Still.
And can you call me tonight?