| Something I have been pondering alot latley is death.
Why do we find ourselves so terrified of the one thing that promises us rest?
Could it be that we are warry of the different? Possibly made nervous by something we dont understand? Or is it because we as souls carried by flesh know that there must be something more? I feel for those that have without any real dedication to thought or study decided that life is life and beyond life is dirt. I wonder, why do those people allow themselves to be roused morning after morning by intrusive bells or the voices of strangers? I can imagine that if i subscribed to the idea that dirt is my destiny, I would collect as much as I could and lay in it, trying to get use to the idea of being damp and cold, perhaps then when life was ending I wouldn't be so scared.
Brilliant men have written, even argued the idea of life being simply life, and that the idea of a creator, a god of sorts, is the selfs feeble attempt to make the I of the self forget its worry. One would say that if, God, infact does exist, he is a poor, totured soul who created human in order to take his focus off his self and make the focus the I of his self. "Worship me" "Before time I was" they would argue that suggestions such as these would only be made by someone starving for attention to make the I feel better about the self and as previously stated attempt to make them feel better. I, on the other hand, will argue the converse. I will begin with the notion that the soul is not simply a part of the body, but instead, the soul is infact the self making a home in a temporary residence of sorts. Secondly, I will propose the idea that their must be a creator.
If we were simply to look at the sphere on which we dwell, we would conclude that the rounder has a better chance of dealing eight aces from a single deck. There must be a creator. The idea that chance is the reason for the many differences within a single species, is at best, the thought of a madman. -to be continued- |
