Today, as I cross-examine my footprints in this puzzle they call life, I realise that problems are ‘one size fits all’ for the inhabitants of earth.

It seems that these problems are so accepted as ‘the way’ that they call it life. In the US we would explain away such complex astro-biophysical dilemmas with: shit happens. As perpetual pain is normalised until we expect nought else, I think worthy of question is that which some claim to exist: heaven, nirvana–paradise.

Being as vague as the Yeti, it laughs at man and his ongoing application for lifetime membership, rejected by his forever-acting brain as (for these banausic frames) it rides the waters of Loch Ness. As I knock on the door of (egoless) knowledge, I now see what the problem always was–it is the disconnection from source. For all the joy and pain I’ve seen, at this sensitive time underneath the cosmos, I have to insist that, my friends believe in God.

I should say ‘trust’ rather than ‘believe’ as it’s more explicit than today’s guilt-retentive, ‘Jesus campaign’ of the God salesman. But that model makes the sane depart, leaving only ‘believers’ who rarely come to ‘know’. Now, mention of such a beautiful word as God, serves the orator the same sentence as an AWOL physician who spoke against a copious pharmaceutical shield. Today, the deaf ears that this refinement falls upon can only be blamed upon the soteriological Bible seller that may not know God as well as she may think. In such cases, it’s like the bottom of the sea trying to describe the air to the land, and so the listener concludes the wind a fiction.

The truth stands as a lone pillar, as a minority in each community that it discovers. Bothered not by external support for verification, it is certainly the outcast that I choose to align with. In the words of Mark Bolton: ‘I’m Spartacus’ and it’s too late in this story to care if my ‘I’ will become a ‘we’. Seeing smoke coming from the engine, we endeavour to save the plane but being seconds from impact, all I can see is a parachute with my name on it, so maybe this scrawl is a ‘my condolences card’.

What if I told the believers that Jesus said, he ‘couldn’t make it and ordered that they go it alone’–would they blame me, trust him, or cease believing? Or would they finally become Christ the individual who, squared by just four, would change this world kerfuffle in a day? Can they not imagine a land of Christs–we can, hence our bold expression of God without apology?

Immediately my blasphemous spellchecker answers the question for them in red underlined binary, it refutes pluralisation of Christ–only ‘Godzzz’–the many god’s they utter.

But then there’s you–my friend–with your disbelief who the believers call a sinner–well isn’t that the kettle calling the pot white? You who accepts cookies from deceitful strangers, in your haste to consume with no care what, why or where, seeing no danger in the brain food that you scoff. Such worshipful, agnostic dissonance is only proof of the inner conflict from that ‘solar detachment’.

But amongst ‘they’ there are those that gno; and they know that both of these disjointed faces that claim to believe (or not) orphaned their hearts to foster the brain, this they have in common. And mid-verse, that sweet spot in-between is where God lives inside (not out). Although sometimes seen outside strolling hand in hand with in, the heart doesn’t give in to the silly suggestions of the floozy brain. So it reasons not with that which can never produce symbiotic flow and so, in the name of rhythm, man remains forever for her and her for he–and all debates on gender die right there in that sweet spot called flow.

But the disbeliever and the believer both share the same offbeat timing. They reason in the brain that society (that is now clearly mad) is part sane and so, in such a mind, a pet fish, a caged bird or a dog are not quite slaves. While they fight to free only their own kind, society it seems is sharing a brain in the name of diversity.

We know their external needs; it’s to fit in, to belong and to make right of wrong and while at it ‘wrong of right’ and if it m­eans to be accepted as part of the bigger clan, who cares? We do, we care to remind you that Hitler only suggested the abuse, the ‘civilised’ community saw it as fit–69 million of them.

But the one who knows within is abstruse, walks alone and is odd to even those of the church that do not. She marries he who she innately loves, knowing the infinite joy of ‘pure’ love over the temporary pretence of companionship brought on by an earlier undiagnosed pain. No, she knows the discomfort of wearing two left shoes as much as she wish it be hale. She refrains from her mind presenting a sister as her mister, thoroughly induced by distain for her significant other. She also doubts she’ll make a protective mother because she couldn’t keep her own (inner) child safe from the blue monster that forced his male privilege.

Science says the abused will abuse again … some bring proof that it isn’t always so, while the knower completes the sentence for them … “even if it be thine own self that they abuse”. The knower says: those who love not themselves will ‘never’ love another and the bible: “… you pay for the sins of your fathers”. But they see not the remedy in the ‘whole vision’, just a bearable fragment that gives the blind a temporary fix, paroling the molester while enriching the surgeon’. They know the inane task of fitting the soldier’s foot in the stiletto and the mother’s foot in the steel toe; it’s her socks that are blue and not her testis. And such illusions will suffice until the truth hits harder still, maybe when one finally matures and thinks just one sovereign thought at home-alone-at night.

But those who know, live mostly in the heart and feel first before they become the victim and make those outer suggestion into an inner desire, engaging the overtaxed brain into action. The brain that takes on all forms of nonsense as true for lack of that sweet spot called ‘soul’. And all that need to placate ‘the majority’, for the lack of autonomy. And the numb (Homer Simpson) community advise her to abort ‘her’ milk supply and stick grafted pieces of skin to replicate a crane that will never fly, very much unlike one that only the supreme architect could design. But they say that ‘copying is the best form of flattery’, while replicating God’s design, who clearly does not exist. And in such absence of sensitivity, both the surgeon and the saved are paid on commission.

Meanwhile back in the hill, my aunty ‘Christ’ begs to pray for me, pray that I let Jesus save me with her holy words, barely moments after I gave the shoes off of my feet to a homeless stranger. My bare feet in the rain interpreted by her brain as ‘sinner’.

I also noticed that the very moment my goose bumps faded, after I gave the poor man my ‘lonely’ dollar, Seymour turned up to accuse my virtue.

I know that the very week that I had to bury my mother-in-law, Paul relapsed and blamed me for not supporting him in his struggle with drugs and not abandoning my own issues.

I know that minutes after my uncle’s diabetes was confirmed, Courtenay came with iced-donuts. And just as this live-thought landed on the page, Lee tempted me to come outside for a walk away from God.

Mostly these figures in their colourful all-sorts, being ‘lost at see’, miss God’s land on this defining day. To them, all is defined in the sensory where they find their reasoning, ignore signs, empathic feelings, impulses and the unseen subtleties that emphatically drive this whole damned fabric.

In a sense, it’s not their fault that they talk numbly of the paranormal and will never conceive the fact that: 99.999999 % of that which appears before them is held together by (what they would call) nothing–empty space. That sweet spot that we know too well is where they could find the harmony that they seek, if they could just slow down and listen. But they want more speed–7 G if possible.

As I maintain: I insist that my friends know God by experience and her timely perfection. If you want to know this mystery called God that evades even those who think they believe, at least first know the devil and his timing before a dissed believer gets you into another mess in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I imagine for the life of this post you may have ventured within for a brief moment but as you go back without, into the world of non-sense, maybe you’ll commit the thoughts to mind before you exit, as fade will these unverified, unpopular, yet true words.

By: Angel Levvis