Who is God? What is God? Where is God?
I don’t know.
But I don’t doubt the existence of God.
Anyone who has taken a step back and taken time to observe nature will know what I’m talking about. The intricate vienation on a leaf. The subtle shading of a delicate flower petal. The complex melodies of bird song which no human can duplicate. The overwhelmingly beautiful power of a fork of lightning.
I believe the sciences are the study of God.
God exists. It’s an irrefutable fact.
Why do we feel the need to pin God down? Simplify, cage and personify that which cannot be simplified, caged and personified?
God isn’t confined to the four walls of a church, symbolized by the guilt-provoking cross hanging over the altar, supplicated to by the parroted words of the I Confess, Gloria, The Creed, The Lord’s Prayer, in the melee of hypocrisy and self righteousness of the faithlessly faithful congregation. God isn’t in the weekly Sunday rituals: stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, sit….
The Bible is not the word of God. It is a collection of books written by humans selected, edited and compiled by humans to suit and reinforce human intentions.
The word of God is not subjective. How can something so fundamental be subjective?
I believe God is in the passing smile we give someone. In noticing someone’s sadness and trying to uplift their mood with a silly joke. In making allowances for someone’s moods, for as someone once said, everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. In the silent moment of triumph when you conquer a willful part of yourself. In…
It is said by those God-anointed people chosen by God to lead us that There Is NO Life Without God.
It’s true. I believe God is a consciousness of humanity. An awareness, an understanding empathy, a joyful sharing of our human experience.
There is mere existence without God. But there is no life.
They call me an unbeliever. Yet, I believe.
Christina De Silva
25 April 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Freedom to conform
I am a Good Person.
I do not drink.
Correction: I was brought up not to drink
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not smoke.
Correction: I was brought up not to smoke
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not wear revealing clothes.
Correction: I was brought up with an awareness of decency appropriate to a woman
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not lead a loose life.
Correction: I was brought up in fear of a patriarchal society
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not steal or kill. I am not a criminal.
Correction: I was brought up controlled by social and religious dictations
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I am helpful and caring.
Correction: I was brought up to emulate the Virgin Mary
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
i am a conformist
Christina De Silva
25th April, 2010
I do not drink.
Correction: I was brought up not to drink
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not smoke.
Correction: I was brought up not to smoke
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not wear revealing clothes.
Correction: I was brought up with an awareness of decency appropriate to a woman
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not lead a loose life.
Correction: I was brought up in fear of a patriarchal society
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I do not steal or kill. I am not a criminal.
Correction: I was brought up controlled by social and religious dictations
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
I am helpful and caring.
Correction: I was brought up to emulate the Virgin Mary
Would I be different if I was given the choice?
i am a conformist
Christina De Silva
25th April, 2010
Society Condemns Me
I would sell my body
To take my mother to a doctor
I would sell the only thing that’s truly mine
For the sake of the one who gave me all I am.
I would bear on my body
The naked weight of another man
Just to take my weight
Off the man, my father, who keeps me alive.
But would they understand
Would they see that was the only way
Would they just call me
A whore
Christina De Silva
20 March 2010
To take my mother to a doctor
I would sell the only thing that’s truly mine
For the sake of the one who gave me all I am.
I would bear on my body
The naked weight of another man
Just to take my weight
Off the man, my father, who keeps me alive.
But would they understand
Would they see that was the only way
Would they just call me
A whore
Christina De Silva
20 March 2010
Shorn
The mirror reflected the apparatus
Lined up on the dressing table,
With cold clarity.
A scissor.
A knife.
A box of matches.
A screwdriver.
The intense gaze of the girl in the mirror
Unsettled her. Made her falter.
Only for a moment.
What attracted?
Identify and annihilate.
Hair.
Robotically picking up the scissors
She hacked at her hair.
Peacock feathers fell to her feet
Each strand lustrous with
Vanity and sugared-words.
Nothing but dead cells really.
Lips.
The knife glinted as she raised it and
Sliced the tender skin.
A smile once so inviting
Once so warm
Now oozed warm blood.
Nothing but dying cells really.
Skin.
Strike. Flame. Blow.
The smoldering black tip
Jabbed deep into her skin
Making marks in a clear complexion
Burns in a skin that had never seen a blemish.
Nothing but burning cells really.
Eyes.
Knuckles whitened as the grip
On the screwdriver tightened
Her hand shook as she pierced her eyes
Bloodcurdling screams
Once so lively…so expressive.
Nothing but dead cells really.
She couldn’t see the bleeding mess
She believed would free her
Just because you can’t see
Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see.
Christina De Silva
20 March 2010
Lined up on the dressing table,
With cold clarity.
A scissor.
A knife.
A box of matches.
A screwdriver.
The intense gaze of the girl in the mirror
Unsettled her. Made her falter.
Only for a moment.
What attracted?
Identify and annihilate.
Hair.
Robotically picking up the scissors
She hacked at her hair.
Peacock feathers fell to her feet
Each strand lustrous with
Vanity and sugared-words.
Nothing but dead cells really.
Lips.
The knife glinted as she raised it and
Sliced the tender skin.
A smile once so inviting
Once so warm
Now oozed warm blood.
Nothing but dying cells really.
Skin.
Strike. Flame. Blow.
The smoldering black tip
Jabbed deep into her skin
Making marks in a clear complexion
Burns in a skin that had never seen a blemish.
Nothing but burning cells really.
Eyes.
Knuckles whitened as the grip
On the screwdriver tightened
Her hand shook as she pierced her eyes
Bloodcurdling screams
Once so lively…so expressive.
Nothing but dead cells really.
She couldn’t see the bleeding mess
She believed would free her
Just because you can’t see
Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see.
Christina De Silva
20 March 2010
Tear-drop shaped
Exotic to the world
This tear-drop shaped island of ours
Did we really think we could
Escape the fate that defines us?
Tear-drop shaped. Oh how exquisite.
For the dark skinned, stripped
Of their rights by a grenade
A tear drop.
For the sacrificed ones, stripped
Of their glory by a false smile
A tear drop.
For the slum dwellers, stripped
Of hope by a greed so destructive
A tear drop.
For the survivors, stripped
Of their future by a fraud
A tear drop.
For the unborn child, stripped
Of its life by a limitless lie
A tear drop.
Christina De Silva
27 January 2010
This tear-drop shaped island of ours
Did we really think we could
Escape the fate that defines us?
Tear-drop shaped. Oh how exquisite.
For the dark skinned, stripped
Of their rights by a grenade
A tear drop.
For the sacrificed ones, stripped
Of their glory by a false smile
A tear drop.
For the slum dwellers, stripped
Of hope by a greed so destructive
A tear drop.
For the survivors, stripped
Of their future by a fraud
A tear drop.
For the unborn child, stripped
Of its life by a limitless lie
A tear drop.
Christina De Silva
27 January 2010
Avarice
Screaming she falls to the ground
A ruthless slap across her face
Reduces her to heaving sobs
Scarred, she shies from the
Bitingly cold wind that stings the cuts
Which cover her once so beautiful skin
Glistening red in sharp relief against the blue bruises.
A passerby is merely a passerby.
And no. No. Absolutely not a witness.
Blood pouring out from between her legs
They mercilessly force themselves
Into her with abandon.
They take turns. Greedy for her screams.
She lies at the end of an alley
Among fermenting garbage bins
Strong empty crates and dog shit.
A window closes. No one ever saw. No one ever heard.
A dead end.
And an end that begins with dense darkness.
She shudders, naked on the cold tar
Not daring to look up
Look up and see the dark figures looming above her.
Christina De Silva
27 January 2010
A ruthless slap across her face
Reduces her to heaving sobs
Scarred, she shies from the
Bitingly cold wind that stings the cuts
Which cover her once so beautiful skin
Glistening red in sharp relief against the blue bruises.
A passerby is merely a passerby.
And no. No. Absolutely not a witness.
Blood pouring out from between her legs
They mercilessly force themselves
Into her with abandon.
They take turns. Greedy for her screams.
She lies at the end of an alley
Among fermenting garbage bins
Strong empty crates and dog shit.
A window closes. No one ever saw. No one ever heard.
A dead end.
And an end that begins with dense darkness.
She shudders, naked on the cold tar
Not daring to look up
Look up and see the dark figures looming above her.
Christina De Silva
27 January 2010
Freefall
Falling down an abyss
Bottom unknown
Falling in a blackness so thick
Screams cannot penetrate it
A hand catches.
A faint suspended hope
A momentary lecherous security
Before the fall begins
A hand catches.
A frantic hope
A fool’s grasp is never secure
Falling again
A hand catches.
A daring hope
A willful hand lets go at whim
Air rushes. Screams unheard.
A hand catches.
A hope that declares itself nonexistent
Exists to declare.
Hoping is all hope knows to do.
A cautious grasp
This time she lets go.
Christina De Silva
14 November 2009
Bottom unknown
Falling in a blackness so thick
Screams cannot penetrate it
A hand catches.
A faint suspended hope
A momentary lecherous security
Before the fall begins
A hand catches.
A frantic hope
A fool’s grasp is never secure
Falling again
A hand catches.
A daring hope
A willful hand lets go at whim
Air rushes. Screams unheard.
A hand catches.
A hope that declares itself nonexistent
Exists to declare.
Hoping is all hope knows to do.
A cautious grasp
This time she lets go.
Christina De Silva
14 November 2009
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