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Essay: Why God CAN'T create meaning
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Many religious apologetics claim that without God, nihilism necessarily follows. The counterpoint has been made many times that even if the universe is meaningless or unpalatable without God, that doesn't make God any more likely to exist. If you decide that a world in which you're no seven feet tall is unacceptable to you, that won't make you any taller. However, nobody seems to have questioned the assumption that God's existence would impart meaning.
After listening to lectures from religious believers and talking to them online, I've noticed that they tend to view their God the same way a toddler views a father figure. Daddy is infinitely strong. Daddy knows everything, and he is always right. If Daddy says it's good, it's good. Pointing out flaws and inefficiencies in God's alleged work, and the moral and logical errors in God's alleged plan, seldom phases a believer, just like a toddler can never b
Lullaby"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
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So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be detonated by a passing glance.
Every time she blew up,
she'd pick the pieces of herself off of bathroom floors
mixed with the medicine she never needed. She had
One day she caught me staring, smiled, walked over, and hugged me...
she smelled like a lonely night.
As she pulled away she looked me dead in the eyes and said,
'Don't worry abou
a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.
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what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bittersweet joy you get when
someone else puts your soul into words
and you realize you're not as alone as you thought.
i told you that if i had all that inside me,
i'd ache all the time
and you smiled a sad little smile,
because you already knew that ache.
because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.
i've got it, i said.