Don't tell me what to believe.


Who said what? When? Where?

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Is that my ancestor's image pinned to my family's crest that you have bolted to your wall? Worse yet, if you've really drank the Kool-Aid, is that me pinned to your wall?

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Rev. Jim Jones

My family has HAD ENOUGH. Don't tell me god is this, or the Gods are that. I know what I believe, and I, nor anyone else, needs you telling them they should believe like you. They SHOULD NOT BELIEVE the crap that was written down centuries after my supposed ancestor died, translated five times from propagandists who had little or no idea what we think, or thought.

palimpsests & plenipotentiaries

Please explain this to me. You have in your book found something written down CENTURIES after my alleged ancestor died. That book is the authority? To do what? To dictate how others ought to believe? That book was translated, edited, reedited, infinitum. Now in it's one-millionth iteration, you are quoting words to me? To anyone? In a language that did not exist for five to seven centuries after my purported ancestor purportedly died? Why?

Because YOU ARE TRYING TO PERSUADE YOURSELF. That is why people prosyletise. You don't need to be an evangelist to be evangelical. On the contrary, being an evangelist is in complete contradiction of everything for which my family, Our family, has fought, died suffered and will, if things go as feared, be the reason you crucify me, or one of my ancestors.

I meet many people every day who are more religious than they are faithful or spiritual. People want to associate with certain types of people, and they will find any means necessary to convince themselves that they are like those people they idolise. You aren't. You are the polar opposite of what Hillel the Elder said.

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She is closer to Hillel than you.

How did Shim'on Bar Yonah, a Jew from Judaea, or one of the others know? Faith. Spirituality.

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ooo, yes We do, silly owl.

Hell is other people.

ー Jean-Paul Sartre

Only humans have created weapons of mass destruction, ergo

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What other sort of farm is there?

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Imagine yourself in the wilds of Western New York. You have a vision of a person. The person has a long beard, is draped with clothing better described as rags. He clearly hasn't washed in months, perhaps years. The vision starts speaking to you in a language and manner with which you connect at a sub, pre-atomic level. He speaks of content which feeds your hunger in the wilds of the Seneca. You go home.

He visits you again. And again. You feel compelled to write, and do. The writings give birth to a following. The following takes you across your land to find a new home. A home devoid of persecution.

At the same time, imagine yourself sitting in the wilds of South Asia three thousand years ago. You're a prince. Your mother is none to pleased you've been sitting in the woods for months or years, not bathing. You've acquired a bit of a following among the local illuminati.

How does the first meet the second? Time is an illusion. Space is foldable. If connected to the land, grounded in nothingness, you can fold time.

Why did you steal the matches
From the one room motel?
Once they gave you answers

Now they give you hell
They will never understand
They wonder where did they go wrong
How could you be so selfish?
Why can′t you get along?

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

You've seen it in the movies
And heard it on the street
Craving the affection
Your blood is full of heat
They don′t listen to your reasons, as original as sin
Deny all that you feel and they will bring you home again

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

Your body is alive
But no one told you what you'd feel
The empty aching hours
Trying to conceal
The natural progression is the coming of your age
But they cover it with shame and turn it into rage

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

You are digging for the answers
Until your fingers bleed
To satisfy the hunger
To satiate the need
And they feed you on the guilt to keep you humble, keep you low
Some man and myth they made up a thousand years ago

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

Mothers tell your children
Be quick, you must be strong
Life is full of wonder
Love is never wrong
Remember how they taught you
How much of it was fear?
Refuse to hand it down
The legacy stops here

Oh, my child
Oh, my child
Hush, hush my child
Oh, my child
Oh, my child
Oh, my child

Melissa L Etherridge

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Lifestyles, like Buddhism and Confucianism, are codes of conducts. Religions are laws of conduct.

- a trucker & troubadour in Watertown Township