On God and Religion #1

The next three posts will be on God and religion. The first two posts (including this one) are “stories” I wrote while “free-writing” in other classes (admittedly, I should have been paying attention to class). I believe that these stories reflect my views on both God and religion. The third post will be a more direct explanation of my views.

Free-write #1 (copied directly from my notes)

The Observer

I have lived my life for a quiet observer. In fact, the observer is completely silent, perhaps even mute. And yet even now in apparent reality, apparent silence, I cannot but escape the anxiety of waiting for a voice or sound, and no matter what volume it may come, it would, no doubt, have any other impact upon me if it were a shout or a scream. And while I cannot say that I have felt this observer, and by this I mean the observer’s presence or anything that it may cause, this alone may show evidence for the case that I may know nothing but the feeling. A proper description of this feeling (in its entirety) escapes me, but I may be capable of some loose success of communication.

It is as if my life is a stage, and my consciousness the performer, but the performance remains unclear, at least equivocal and at times blatantly deceiving. And accompanying me upon that stage are my, apparent, tools to perform: an automobile and the various settings or sets. This automobile may drive me through these sets (and by doing so, hopefully fulfilling my performance to its conclusion and to the approval of the observer) but which type of vehicle I maneuver is at times unclear. What is clear, or at least has been until my recent stage of adolescent transcendence, is that this performance doubles as a test, for my driver’s license. But what type am I going for? A? B, C, or D? What is this morality that, presumably, I should know how to not only drive sufficiently but exceptionally or at least, extraordinarily to the extent that I may boast/deserve an observer. Even now I fear a failure of my communication. I fear that my writing flow and form have now taken over the wheel from truth. But I do want truth, especially now in this time of my life, this seemingly objective form of mind: I want truth. So much so that I feel compelled to drive whichever and whatever way may best fit my settings rather than the observer.

And then I THINK. Why must these be any different? How can they? And yet my whole life I have thought that they must; even worse, I have felt that they must (still permitting and insisting the fact that I have always doubted the type of automobile at my disposal; disposal; even this word I question insofar as I have felt the disposer and the disposed); even now I struggle to acknowledge and overcome intuitions. “What are their bases?” Often the answers are parental settings or even the entire lineless stage with its congested traffic of vehicles pointing in different directions but so close that none may give way without taking it. And all including, up till now and even as my pen continues to write I have thought, “What would the observer have me do?” what rules do I follow in this task? Only recently have I even thought about what my own rules may be. Rules determined by my reason, however flawed it may be it still remains perfect in its one way path, its single road that makes all other’s unobservable. Objectively pointing to performance for the performer’s sake. And yet I cannot help but smirk and laugh as a cold uncomfortable chill seizes my frame; familiar guilt, as present as the lines just previous, in which my mind went blank and hesitated, the pistons clanking, after the word reason. Perhaps a “boo,” for I have heard how distracting an unpleased audience can be to a performer, so much so that the entire performance can be forgotten. When the audience shows that they are displeased the performer, having thought that he or she were on to something even brilliant and commendable, will rethink and doubt the performance that they were acting out in favor of their performance they have forgotten: the one that was objectively worth watching.

And so it seems that the observer makes me second-guess my path and direction until I turn the key and think again. For how else am I to fulfill this act and travel than by using what I have to set this vehicle in motion, because I cannot help but think that it is impossible for the correct performance to entail the sight of a brain-dead man who, keys in his left hand, holds his right thumb up to the audience as his own vehicle shines on display behind him. Perhaps this intuition is the one I should be fighting. The words “I don’t know my lines/(or)/my performance” would be ironic. Unless of course the audience would answer back as the observing director: “This is rehearsal, here are your stage directions…”