your god gave birth to an atheist in your livingroom
Jamison, the least altruistic of the trio sitting around a table topped with several empty near-empty beer cans and a plate of half-eaten jalapeño poppers, aggressively swept the cans off the table. They clattered to the floor with a chorus of clangs that incited the gritting of Mikel's teeth. Jamison sat on the edge of the table and swept his legs across it so his body was occupying most of the tabletop.
"Let's chew on this a bit more pragmatically, because to be frank, you both make me want to guzzle lemon Pledge," Jamison chided.
"What's pragmatic about the way you've invaded my coffee table's personal space?" Mikel retorted through his teeth grinding.
"It's not about our actions right now. The way that we talk to each other - not what we do with our bodies concurrently - will dictate how this conversation goes down. We could be juggling fucking flaming unicorns while balancing on a unicycle for all I care; I'm all ears if what you've got to say isn't complete drivel."
"You're being a bit dramatic, Jamison, aren't you?" Grant asked from the love seat opposite Jamison.
"You've got a double major in theatre and creative writing, so don't come for me for being dramatic." Jamison downed the contents of his beer can and toyed with the tab with his index finger. "By the standards you're supposedly meant to be setting by flexing those degrees of yours, we should all dare to express our creativity more often."
Grant cast his eyes into a deep roll into the back of his head, his arms crossing in front of him defensively. "I'm not telling you not to be dramatic - I mean, do what you want, I guess - but can you not make a mess of the place while you're at it?"
"Yeah, I really don't want Ben getting on my ass for this..." Mikel began, gazing absently at the mess strewn across the tile floor.
"Uh huh, and at what point, Mikel, during your failing marriage did you become a spineless vagina?"
"Excuse me?"
"God, you heard me. Or does everything other people say have to be filtered by Ben first before it registers in your little brain?"
"Jamison, you need to leave," Mikel snapped, beginning to stand.
"Fuck me, have I offended? That wasn't my intention, I forget that some people have boundaries. Though, with most people it's religion, but with you I guess it's the caustic relationship that's built walls around you that you refuse to conquer despite your friends insisting time and time again that it's in your best interest to do so."
"You need to leave both my religion and relationship out of your mouth."
"But I've only just scraped the surfaces! If I recall, you're of the opinion that your religion is the truest, that your God is the greatest, and that your beliefs are incontrovertible. Is that right?"
"Jamison," Grant started, but Jamison is already continuing.
"Regardless of what your Sunday school teachers taught you, the creation of gods was no contrived incident; each and every one just happened. Not by accident or coincidence, of course, but they were not drawn or sculpted, nor were they idealized or fabricated. The Christian God simply was, and because He was once, so He was thereafter. That is, until His existence wasn't enough for other creative minds, and so other gods became. The method by which religion is founded is nothing short of earthly, despite how much you want to believe the musings in your 2,000-year-old Anne Frank-esque fictional recounting of a 30-year-old middle eastern man inventing the placebo effect. All spiritual notions in these stories are a reflection, a shadow, a marionette of what exists purely in our heads."
The room fell quiet. Mikel was fuming, but staring at his thumbs as they twiddled around each other aimlessly. Grant's face had turned a rosy red and he was gnawing his bottom lip raw. In the absence of a response, Jamison carried on.
"We have historically searched and searched for truths, for it is a symptom of the human condition to be inquisitive, to seek thorough knowledge, to more deeply understand all that ever was, is, and ever will be. We want to stretch our minuscule brains far beyond capacity so that we can desperately grasp for unfathomable reaches."
Jamison reached across the table, poking around the discarded beer cans in search of any residual drippings. He drained the cans within reach, picked at the burnt crumbs on the plate between his legs, and idly stroked his chin scruff. Grant reached for his lip, pulling away a bloody finger. He blinked. Mikel on the other hand had ceased blinking.
"Yet," Jamison continued with a breathy chuckle, "we fall short in uncovering truth from the writing of our forefathers beyond what's printed now on pages that was originally scribed against papyrus, stone, and dirt. Some argue that it's a virtue - the "marvel of historical preservation!" - but some will instead insist that it is a marvelous work of fiction, a grandstanding example of what the mind will construct when exposed to moments of peril and stress through which there is no passage except through oneself or, even better, a higher entity that will offer alternative salvation if we just... pray, or don't eat for a month, or sacrifice our other favorite stuff as repayment."
Mikel kept his head down for several seconds after Jamison stopped talking before finally murmuring, "I never went to Sunday school."
"I know, because otherwise you would have spent this time praying yourself out of that situation and I'd be a pile of cinders on your coffee table. Then again, that's just another mess you'd have to clean up before Ben comes home."
exeunt
