An Introduction into the Mind of a Heretic.
Updated: Nov 16, 2020
Shadows stretch and slide across the ceiling until spinning fan blades produce a stop motion feature film of an anonymous passerby.
“I should be sleeping” I murmur. “Everyone else is…”
Everyone except the shadow piloting that car a minute ago anyways…
I turn to the right and see my fiance’, motionless under layer upon layer, whilst I lie covering free, humid and uncomfortable. My mind races like the dreams of our two pit bull mixes in the corner; their legs twitch as they chase what they covet most. My movements might be similarly construed I concede as I lean forward giving up on a few hours of spastic human rotisserie, rolling over hot pillows.
A dull blue glow clicks on, it’s just me and the keys now. I breath a sigh of contention as I feel the mental locks opening, I bask in the slow metallic grind of the rusty deadbolts I use to lock in my minds daily white noise. I imagine Hitchens, far left, at the bar cracking open a fresh Johnnie Walker, my mind drifts to the right to take in Hunter S. Thompson at the other end of the table, a snark grin drifting through spiraling smoke and settling in his rocks glass, gleaming amber with a double of Wild Turkey.
“Here we go again guys” The clicking starts.
My fingers creep across my machine gun, my revolution, and my freedom as my mind wanders. I grind on within the shadows of predawn wondering aimlessly:
“How important, really, are my words?”
How important is any of this drawn out prose and why seek inspiration from poetic greatness; the insight of a literary fuse capable of changing the life of a single deaf kid in middle America? I ride along, the words rising and falling, unsure and simultaneously exhilarated at what might come at the next turn, the next question, or the next discovery.
The weight of the world rides on my eyes as I swim to the shallow end of the pool, I glance to the deep and see darkness, the big questions, the ones eluding every mind of humanity since long before words could comfort the fears of oblivion.
Swiping to another page there is a new pattern in the blue glow, a message of validation, a place to submit my ruminations on “Life, the Universe, and Everything” without the fears of damnation wrapped in packages of salvation. Far from the pale clawed reach and red eyed stare of those of the cloth, I drift towards a new chapter in my life, an opportunity found through new friendship and connections in an underground movement.
I offer you this one consolation, this one simple message: your words do matter, your feelings are worth late nights behind a computer screen, and all your aspirations are worth every dull morning staggering into work exhausted from a night of restless contemplation. Everything you wish to say out loud in the warm glow of the sun but wait until darkness to submit into the ether is justified, and your day is now.
Within this community we might be able to leave the rusty locks behind and find a place we truly can be ourselves, but it will take you, every one of you, to join me, Hitch, Thompson, and everyone here at Atheist Analysis to make our voices heard.
For if we speak loud enough, even the mouse can startle the elephant.