If You Pray, Be Honest

Me: Excuse me, Outer Intuition, Inner Nagger, Origins of Love, and Source of Galactic Central Heating, I need a check-in. I suspect you’re aware that there are a lot of people who’ve decided the best way to deal with the Idea of You is to emulate Nancy Reagan: Just say no way.

Ineffable: Oh yes, that’s fine with me. Entirely understandable. Gotta love those atheists.

Me: And of course, there are other people who say the Idea of You emerges from their experience of mountains or stargazing or babies.

Ineffable: That’s nice. I like that.

Me: And some say that if by chance there is something like you, it is unknowable.

Ineffable: Well, that’s wise. In times like these, bet-hedging is the way to go.

Me: But the ones that worry me are the vast hordes of True Believers. Do you know about them?

Ineffable: Of course. That impulse emerged with human consciousness. It’s a cult-like, primitive narcissism fed by fear, avarice, and a quest for power and immortality. Long on delusion. Short on reasoning. It’s intriguing.

Me: Intriguing, my ass. It’s killing us.

Ineffable: I can see why you’d feel that way. But it’s not me. No version of me is killing you.

Me: Yeah, sure. Guns don’t kill people. People kill people. But what’s the point? Why do humans lock down on these falsely-comforting, narrow, ignorant narratives of the Idea of You that dangle formulaic salvations? Or endorse sadistic sacrifices? They don’t know the real you.

Ineffable: WHAT? THE REAL ME? Now you’re scaring me. Did you really just say that?

Me: Gotcha. Hahahahaha.

Ineffable: Very funny. Is there a real you?

Me: Ah, maybe. I don’t know. Don’t change the subject.

Ineffable: We’re more alike than you realize.

Me: Now you’re scaring ME!”

Ineffable: Why? Because there’s a lot of suffering and death inflicted in the name of the “real me”?

Me: No. I know that’s not like any version of you.

Ineffable: The real versions of me are more like the ones being killed. Especially the powerless ones.

Me: And that’s what I’m afraid of.

Ineffable: I’m a little afraid myself, honey. But mostly sad.

Me: Yeah. Mostly sad.