Monday, November 19, 2012

... the great mystery

I came home from work as quickly as I could. I wanted to make some more progress on the bookshelves. But, no luck. The day is grey and there is little light where I need it most. A glass of wine later and I am sitting at my desk, writing this forlorn letter of love to you. 

I have a whole bunch of people praying for me, hordes of them. I get involved in group arguments against religion (always them vs. me) and along the way I suggest that they pray for me. The argument always escalates and then I demand to know why they haven't been praying for me. Christians are fun. I don't care what anybody says. I bet christian sex must be deadly. I want to try it sometime but I'd have to get married.

The end of a general election always saddens me. I don't know what to do with my leftover arguments. I have to take my dissatisfaction elsewhere, I guess. Christians seem innately prepared for it. After losing an election they fall back on their faith - and some of them have found me waiting there, lurking in the disappointments. They are anguish receptacles, silly sadness sponges. The smart ones have already hit rock bottom. The dumb ones never even bothered trying. 

I say all of this at my own spiritual peril.

"It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy." - Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov