I am sitting in my basement, listening to Sigur Ros’ ( ) , contemplating my life. The meaningless gibberish bounces off my face and back at the glowing screen, leaving me in a trance-like state. The music is docile, the mood is calm, and I am questioning existence. It was another one of those days at work. Every customer cheerfully adding a “merry Christmas” to the end of their pre-recorded goodbye message. I stand there and reciprocate while wondering, “when did we become so smug?” I realize that its one of those nights, that these feelings may hold no real standing. I realize that judgments are shooting out of me like pez from a broken automatic dispenser. But, is there some nugget of truth, be it deeply coated in bitterness and existential bullshit. I hear another customer complaining about people saying, “happy holidays.” So what? It’s the holidays, should they not be happy? Why is it that christian culture has to turn everything into some subversive plot to destroy religion? I prefer happy holidays. It flows off the tongue better. It encompasses the entire season, instead of one day. My thoughts wander. A lady is on the phone, talking to someone about the king James version. I hear her talk about a third party that endorses it as the best bible. That third party is an idiot. I wonder how such deeply rooted ignorance can manifest itself so proudly. I realize that my own pride is flaring at this point. I cough and almost throw up. If I threw up I could go home. I want to go home, but I know that is not why I am here. Children appear through the door. The one thing that makes this more bearable. They are so innocent, not trying to impress or convince anyone of anything, other than that Prince Caspian is the best movie ever. I play into their game. I allow this young boy named Noah, good name by the way, to explain to me the different characters and plots. I dare not ruin his fun by telling him how off the movie was from the book. I am not that kind of guy. Or am I? Sitting here in my intellectual superiority laughing silently at the KJV fanatic and the MacArthur fan. Have I become what I despise? Am I nothing more than that which I hate? A customer leaves as I mutter “Merry Christmas” to them. Why do we even say that? Where am I? Who am I? My whole life is deconstructed before my eyes and I sit, powerless to the overwhelming power of idea. Is it the Devil, tearing me away? Or God, enlightening me? Humanity gives God credit for what he never meant, and blames the devil for its own actions. Perhaps we are the creators of our own inventions. Perhaps we are the builders of our own buildings. Back to my reality. What makes a human special? We dress up and cover ourselves. Build fancy buildings and machines to do our work. When does life start? I am stuck in an endless cycle of doors, never finding the one that takes me to fresh air.
They weren’t cows inside. They were waiting to be, but they forgot.
Have we forgot who we are? Dear God, let us see sky again.