I don’t care who created the universe. I care who created the creation myth. That’s who created the universe. The universe itself is a myth. Look at the prefix “uni-“. Pure myth-making right there.
Always ask, what is the origin of the origin? Then ask, what is the origin of that origin? Eventually you’ll see your own consciousness as a closed loop, and, like a loose wheel, your entire personality will detach from your body and roll away. Who needs it?
Did the prehistoric poet snicker when his mandrake vision was mistaken for literal truth? John of Patmos, we know, was hallucinating whilst scribbling mad tracts against the Roman Empire. Now every AM station in the Deep South takes his seven-headed dragon seriously as a sign of impending doom, as if a seven-headed dragon wouldn’t be super easy to obliterate with a bunker-busting bomb or two.
You might be institutionalized if you claim an alien probed you, but promoted to Bishop if you spot thirteen-million-and-three angels dancing the cha-cha on the head of a pin.
Of course God exists; I just don’t think He’s real. I haven’t constructed a label for this philosophical position. I’m experimenting with “transpsychgnosticism.”
If you look deeply enough into anything, past the rationale and emotion, past language and experience, past any trace of your self, past even time and space, you’ll see a small boy playing jacks alone beneath a flickering streetlight. I promise.
Quick summary of Ontology: There was nothing once. Maybe. But there isn’t nothing now. Obviously.
