Dear god,

Why can’t you give me something concrete? I’m tired of listening to man-kind make up sorry ass excuses for the VAST lack of proof of your existence.

Growing up, the game telephone taught me not to trust everything I heard. So your word, which has passed through centuries of people, must be immensely more of a mockery than purple monkey dishwasher by now.

I want to believe in you, but not the man-made scrambled version. I don’t need the money crazed christmas incarnation. I don’t want to believe for fear of hell, nor for the promise of paradise.

I want to be independent from the smug, numb flocks printing you in any variety that sells allegiance.

I want to know that the truth is greater than myself and my world—and for that I can wait until I shed them.

If not I will miss you; the one I never knew.

Love,
Tad