I pity the atheists because they are not what they claim. Were you to cease your sustenance, even for a nanosecond, chaos would envelop us with oblivion. And what is a nanosecond as we slice timeless wonder into bits and pieces and affix a label just as we slice another slice and label it Planck time?
Are they thankful, ever? To whom, for what, and with what? Can a neuron cross a synapse with gratitude for a random connection or chance at escape from having no sense of purpose? Yes, they are thankful while they claim an inability to be so.
Pity is too strong a sentiment, for I love them all and I love you more.
Do I know you?
Here is what I do know:
Too benevolent! Ever gracious. Kind. Mysterious. Personal and intimate beyond flesh against flesh. Good in true essence with no comprehension of any possibility of otherwise. Nonsensical in intricacy. Beautiful, you are a painting upon a boundless canvas made of air, tints and hues and colored saturation deeper than blood and hanging upon nothing and upon all you have made in any dimension. Unfathomable power—macro/micro, you cause a quantum fixation pricked and prodded by a needle contained in a sigh as your word becomes our world . . .
Photograph “basil and chamomile on a patio with coffee and morning drizzle, the world before them and nothing but a couple of sand dollars between them” © 2019 Timothy Waugh