Confession

“There is a luxury in self reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has the right to blame us. It is the confession not the priest that gives us absolution.”

--Oscar Wilde, the Picture of Dorian Grey—


I often wonder whether man created God to help him cope with his own mortality, or whether God created man to lessen the boredom and loneliness of eternity.

In either case, both were disappointed.


Bless me God for I have sinned. My thoughts have strayed far beyond redemption, into a land free of the sickness of deities and the silly misconceptions of men.

Bless me for getting drunk on life’s absurdity, and trying to escape its boundaries before you struck me sober with the bitterness of reality. I have followed my faith across the borders of religion, and waded through seas of the faithless in order to find you, but you stayed out of my reach while keeping me within your tight grasp.

Bless me for using the useless little brain you have given me, and asking too many meaningless questions. I only wished to understand this world a bit better, to perceive it through the eyes of a creator, with the timeless gaze of a god, and a vision unblurred by the failures of the past or the mediocrity of the future.

Bless me God for coveting thy property. I sought Immortality, believing that the luxury of infinite time would give my mind what it takes to encapsulate such a horridly colossal concept as that of your omnipotent existence, but that was far too complex for my humble being to handle.

Forgive all of this, dear God, and let’s call this game even and end it without any further delays. After all, you’ve created me with all my imperfections, and you cannot deny me the simple pleasures of sin. Or maybe I was the one to have created you, with all your power and ruthless divinity, and thus I cannot blame you for the burdens of my random, selfish existence.

In either case, all that I've done is totally irrelevant.