markmymark
Earning My Ears
- Joined
- Sep 15, 2006
- Messages
- 18
As my first post, I found this poetic (kinda of funny) opinion on the web. I found it at
ccpersian-dot-blogspot-dot-com
Does God Exist?
To defenestrate buckets of hesitation out of trepidation (what of ramifications?), to live a life pedestrian, to park in the handicapped stall of the mind, contented....
To take a risk....
What does it mean to ask "Does God Exist"? What does it mean to feel the need to demand a response to a query beyond time and space, beyond words and feelings?
I say God exists but the proof is outside the boundaries of reason. It is akin to imbibing bluish pink, reading rice, masticating summertime's warm breeze, sniffing bliss, and eavesdropping on hope.
I say, state, declare, verbalize, utter, pronounce, express, voice, that God exists.
But what do words know, black ink on a paper, sounds in the air, what do they mean, how can they define the undefinable?
How do I understand, comprehend, grasp what it means for God to exist, when I am limited by senses belligerent to that which I can not feel?
It is a herculean task, a pianissimo then a crescendo leading into a fortissimo, and before the proof is reached, the music beyond the hearing range.
One must ask for evidence, proof, confirmation, facts and testimonies, but how and when?
Should I send mathematical signals into the vacuum, fling into the truculent space a purple piece of paper with RSVP on the back, mathematizing human curiosity and fragility into a natural logarithm?
Perhaps one must solicit God's signal on turbulent rapids, weeping and pleading, or maybe, on a bed of roses, alone but not lonely, high on a substance emancipating you from your flesh dead and diseased by worldly incapacitation.
Could a loathsome powder, a cure for health, lead you to a deity? If so, what do they share in common, visions of a pink giraffe, voice of sphinx, falsetto, and a tortured communist, tasty to the touch?
Yet I am nailed to the road, a path that forks into reason and unreason. I am bound and nailed by both reason and feelings, by strangulating words, by that which filters out my spirit into the paper, into nice and heated sentences, long and short.
This is my home and to rise above the ceiling in search of God, unknown. So I have no choice but to defenestrate those weed-like doubts, and stay inside in the comfort of logic and feelings, and think that this is me and nothing but me, knowing that I can only be as tall as these walls full of words and sentiments, witty and tangerine.
ccpersian-dot-blogspot-dot-com
Does God Exist?
To defenestrate buckets of hesitation out of trepidation (what of ramifications?), to live a life pedestrian, to park in the handicapped stall of the mind, contented....
To take a risk....
What does it mean to ask "Does God Exist"? What does it mean to feel the need to demand a response to a query beyond time and space, beyond words and feelings?
I say God exists but the proof is outside the boundaries of reason. It is akin to imbibing bluish pink, reading rice, masticating summertime's warm breeze, sniffing bliss, and eavesdropping on hope.
I say, state, declare, verbalize, utter, pronounce, express, voice, that God exists.
But what do words know, black ink on a paper, sounds in the air, what do they mean, how can they define the undefinable?
How do I understand, comprehend, grasp what it means for God to exist, when I am limited by senses belligerent to that which I can not feel?
It is a herculean task, a pianissimo then a crescendo leading into a fortissimo, and before the proof is reached, the music beyond the hearing range.
One must ask for evidence, proof, confirmation, facts and testimonies, but how and when?
Should I send mathematical signals into the vacuum, fling into the truculent space a purple piece of paper with RSVP on the back, mathematizing human curiosity and fragility into a natural logarithm?
Perhaps one must solicit God's signal on turbulent rapids, weeping and pleading, or maybe, on a bed of roses, alone but not lonely, high on a substance emancipating you from your flesh dead and diseased by worldly incapacitation.
Could a loathsome powder, a cure for health, lead you to a deity? If so, what do they share in common, visions of a pink giraffe, voice of sphinx, falsetto, and a tortured communist, tasty to the touch?
Yet I am nailed to the road, a path that forks into reason and unreason. I am bound and nailed by both reason and feelings, by strangulating words, by that which filters out my spirit into the paper, into nice and heated sentences, long and short.
This is my home and to rise above the ceiling in search of God, unknown. So I have no choice but to defenestrate those weed-like doubts, and stay inside in the comfort of logic and feelings, and think that this is me and nothing but me, knowing that I can only be as tall as these walls full of words and sentiments, witty and tangerine.
