Friday, March 18, 2011

God Complex

On the first day there was silence
The second day, there was God
The third day came the humans
But by the fourth, we forgot.
On the fifth day came the Holy Ones
We crucified Adam and Eve
The first born son on the sixth
We buried our prestige
Deities came and went, and on the seventh we remained
We erected the temples
Our bibles maintained
We worshiped the wind
We worshiped ourselves
We worshiped outsiders
Wrote books for the shelves
We forged our own chains
We dug our own graves
Locked the sheep in their cages
We were the slaves


God.
The Almighty One.

It is comforting, is it not, to believe that someone else is in-charge of your destiny? That a mystic force up there can wave a magic wand and miraculously make it all right?

God is dead, said Nietzsche. God remains dead, and we have killed him.

Weren't we the ones who created God in the first place? Hasn't the concept God since time immemorial always been to comfort our own selves that we could rely on something bigger than our puny bodies?

We are specks of light in this dark abyss and sometimes, hope falters. The weak ones need a cushion for their broken dreams and a comforter for their desires when their efforts weren't enough. We are too full of ourselves to even CONSIDER taking full blame for out actions.

"It was luck. It was ill-fated. Maybe GOD meant it to be"

What sort of a God would let his son be crucified on the cross?
Yes, faith shatters. After all, wasn't Christ the biggest scapegoat in existence?
What sort of a God would take away your loved ones?

Where was God during the Tsunami? Where was God during the destruction of Japan?
Did he feel that perhaps his children were being too naughty, so they had to be rebuked?
What kind of a God deems it fit for child molesters and rapists to breathe the same air as the innocents?

God is in the T.V. God, is in our head. We created him, we appease him, and we killed him. It is the end of times, grab your prayer books everybody because you're in for a rough ride. Narcissistic and broke, our mirror images become reflecting deities. Subconsciously, we loathe our hedonistic traits, since slavery was a trait drilled into our heads.
So we punish ourselves, and dear old Dad in heaven gets the blame.

How many of us can truly confess to seeking God WITHOUT some demand in mind?
How many of us can honestly say that the last time we prayed, it was unselfishly?

As humans, most of us are flimsy excuses for mankind. Devoid of emotion and empathy, clutching rosaries made of the skin and bone of others toil.
The true believers are the ones so deluded in their search for this higher Power that they isolate themselves from us doubters.

And of course we have the preachers, the propagators, who make God their business, making a pretty penny while manufacturing brainwashed sheep at this factory of fanaticism.

God is a crutch for the weak. A beggar, who comes up to your car, will always ask for a donation in "God's name" He doesn't care for the blessings of your "God", all he wants is some money.

So, do I believe in God?
No.
But I am not opposed to the idea of a true force that unites us all, coz after all, I am only Human, and Hypocrisy is injected in my blood. I admit, the idea of being all alone in this vast universe, is terrifying. So I seek answers, so I question and offend people. All in the hope; that maybe someday, I may be able to answer the questions that keep me awake at night.





But then, it is never polite to shove religion down the throats of unwilling masses is it?

Monday, March 7, 2011

Original Individual - A Poem



Originality, in my view, should be a religion in itself. The religion of the free thinkers, where everyone is a star. Why do we allow ourselves to be labelled and put in boxes?
Are we soup cans?

We have the potential to reach for the stars we look up to, hell, even BECOME those very stars, emulated by millions.
It's all about recognizing yourself and finding your true potential. Be what you wanna be, the only opinion that matters is your own. Don't disgrace yourself in your own eyes in a futile effort to be something you aren't.

We're all fallen angels, molded by the hands of our Father.


Anyways, on to the poem -

I see the beautiful clones
Their rusted hands
The landscape is all but one
Blank and grey, everything's the same
I scream at the sheep
Grab the masses by the throat
Original, individual, I say
Give me something new
Let the spectrum shine through this washed out palette
Break free of your bonds of uniformity
Conform, but only to yourself
Show some color, ignite the spark
Of your overworked soul
Give me a diamond, in a mountain of stones
Original individual, be yourself forever
Narcissus awake from your enraptured slumber
See how unique you really are
Unlock your potential with a skeleton key
Of Moonshine and Goodwill
Original individual, starstruck now or never

Till next time,
Ciao,
Taksh