The Skeptic Mind —What It Takes to be an Atheist
Every believer has it rhyming each day—of truth that will never be and songs that are just too beautiful to be true. Someone once said that life is a tragic little thing ever created by nobody. I know that is—or what is supposed to be but never is. In-fact as I vividly try to coerce my fingers into writing—my mind is trying to comprehend the alternatives of reality.
Some perfectly believe that God exists, but I’m a very strong skeptic. Just as the cup gets filled with red water and the birds start manipulating the sounds of nature—I have it that natural selection is a beautiful thing out of nowhere.
To theorize that there is an intelligent being watching over us every single minute is as naïve as setting Mars on fire and realizing that we have set fire to the creators of all planets. In no way did the fundamentals of life or the existing realms has had to conflict with each other.
But as each era passed by such convincingly, a group of strong people felt what they ought to—or the compulsion was such dear that no skeptic could ever question. If I were to worship my pen today and tell the humans of tomorrow that it healed my depression—then I would make it a GOD.
In-fact, the next few seconds will have me confined to my own judgments. You see, there hasn’t been much rain or fall that will drown everyone to have that idea totally eradicated. Humans evolved trying to adapt with the idea that it was alright to worship the non-existent.
In this day, when science is such convincing and the pillars of the neuro-chemistry that has me dancing at my own wedding. So many things make sense—of all that could have never been understood by the unwavering commoner.
It was a bad day yesterday—but the art of confinement makes it one today. To feel the rays of happiness—one is told to pray to an imaginary figure who would only grant such feelings to the person who worships him. And the person next to him is the dirt who will never be loved.
The disparity is large and the mis-guide is so little—yet we fail to comprehend. The pill of happiness and the lover from the end of times—that is what we call God, and if there is anything left of science—my utter believe that it is the only truth.
The theory is simple if it’s well narrated. A teenage scent of depression but it heals after a few “prayers”—but to the reality of things, it was the construct of the neuro-chemistry that had it contained. Ever wondered what happened inside our brains for at least once?
My life has been a rollercoaster of concrete emotions—at times when hate was love, only to be contemplated by ashes of grief, but the reality is—life which is just a beautiful hate story in each couplet. Sometimes I wonder—why am I even here, sitting along the rainbows of rumors as if I’m not a thing and my voice is just a lousy melody.
Do tell me if you see God because for now—the art has me running out of the shadows. It’s the one thing that I would not want to pursue even if my life depends on it.
Emptying closets and naked virgins are being sacrificed—and if there is any rationality left inside the stone that is “GOD”—then I would like to wake up in a different universe at a different point in time. Perhaps the outsider knows it better or the construct that is such rarely calculated. If only one could walk on water—
--Yogesh Chandra