Tag Archives: Christianity

Wordgames – Why ‘belief’ and ‘non-belief’ are not true opposites

I am always vaguely bothered by how religious people frame the argument of belief. In essence, they are ‘believers’ and I am a ‘non-believer’ or an ‘unbeliever’ or I ‘don’t believe’. They are ‘theist’, I am ‘atheist’. Except, I don’t see it that way. Why is the term that describes me the antithesis to the term that describes them? Now, I don’t go the route of some atheists and say that believers are ‘delusional’ and I am ‘rational’, but I see the point of re-framing the argument, of taking it back for us, the ‘non-believing’ community. It is partly because neither term fits: I do believe in things that aren’t real, like love and democracy, so I am not strictly speaking a non-believer. And it isn’t that I have moved away from god(s); there weren’t any to begin with.

Just so we are all clear on the issue, I want to underline my position. There is no god. There are no gods or divine motive forces. There are no angels, demons, miracles, fairies, or spirits, and there are certainly no leprechauns. There never were. They are fictions humans invented because they were scared of lightning and floods and the dark and death. We made up stories to comfort us in times of suffering and woe, to explain the (then) inexplicable, and we told these stories for so long they became part of the fabric of society. They were woven into our history, given pride of place in the systems of our lives, a position reinforced by blood and persecution, power and politics. But there is no god. There are no gods. There never were.

Let’s dig into a little bit of linguistics, shall we? ‘Belief’ comes from the Old English word belyfan, which means to have faith or confidence in something, in this case, the god of the Christians, commonly (are rather arrogantly) known as God. This word itself is derived from the hypothesised Proto-Germanic word *ga-laubjan, meaning ‘to believe, to love’ (the little asterisk means that we have no actual evidence for the use of this word, but it has been reconstructed from various sources by linguists). This, in turn, is derived from the Proto-Indo-European word *leubh-, meaning ‘to care, desire, love’ (you can see how we get the modern word ‘love’ from this root). The prefix ‘non-’ means ‘not, lack of’, and is ultimately derived from the Proto-Indo-European compound *ne (not) + *oi-no- (one). So, as a non-believer, I do not care for God, I do not desire Him, and I certainly do not love Him (let’s be frank, if ‘it’ is anything it is a ‘him’, because the patriarchy said so, it is described as a ‘father’ and with masculine terms).

Theist/atheist are from Greek roots, a + theos, ‘without’ + ‘god’. The origins of theos are a bit vague, but it has strong connotations of divinity, and was originally connected to the Greek pantheon (you can even see it in there, pan + theon, ‘all gods’). Early Christians themselves were accused of being atheist as they denounced all but one god. It is a pity they fell short at the last hurdle.

Now that we know what the words mean, I feel we are better situated to discuss what they mean. I often feel like believers understand ‘non-belief’ to mean a lack of belief in God, whereas I understand it to mean the other option: I do not believe in God (actually, it’s even stronger than that). There is a subtle but important distinction here. To lack something implies a void which ought to be full, an absence which should not exist. Believers inherently presume that they have something I am missing, some great Truth or Revelation, some greater understanding. Now, they tend to dress up this arrogant position as humility and claim that non-believers are the ones who are arrogantly casting aside God, but again, there is no god to cast aside, and we aren’t the ones claiming that an infinite power has deigned to listen to our every whim and desire, and that everyone else’s magical sky father is wrong. I do not lack. There is no absence. There is no void. And if there is, I have friends and family and comics and poetry and movies and the astonishing beauty of the universe to fill it. I don’t need fairy-tales to help me sleep at night. I do not lack belief; as I have said elsewhere, I do believe in non-real things: I prefer to live a life that believes in love and art, but I recognise these as subjective experiences. I do not believe in a divine force. But here again, I have fallen into the trap of describing myself using negation. There is no divine force for me not to believe in. Even the term ‘atheist’ presumes the position of a god-presence.

These terms are rooted in a position of privilege. Religion and faith hold an unfair and dominant position in most societies. Belief has been the accepted default position in most cultures for most of history. Non-believers have always been a minority, and have therefore been identified in terms defined by the majority: you am X, and I am not-X. This is pretty standard fare for all minority groups; they rarely get to self-designate. So, we who affirm that there are no supernatural forces at work in the universe are identified in contrast to those who do, and on their terms. We are the ones who see reality as it is, but we are named by those who adhere to an absurd and fantastical cosmogony.

You might be wondering, so what? Think of it this way. I am a non-smoker. I think it is weird that I am defined in opposition to what was once a popular pastime which involves inhaling carcinogens. The negation of the term implies that the person who is ‘not’ is the aberrant party, that the negative particle transfers a negative connotation to the individual. Indeed, there is an opposition of terms which conveys this: moral and amoral. There is a pejorative sense to being a non-believer or an atheist that is embedded in the term. You can see this if you flip the concept and think of a term that is socially understood to be a negative: I am not a non-sexist or a non-racist because we all agree (or we ought to!) that sexism and racism are moral wrongs. We don’t really need a non-X construction for these ideas, we just have to not be arseholes. One might argue that this isn’t entirely accurate, that we do have a term that has come to mean the opposite of sexist: feminist. On the contrary, my understanding of the word ‘feminist’ is that it is a very broad, all-encompassing idea of treating everyone equally, so it far exceeds a mere opposition to ‘sexist’. (But, I hate to break it to you, if you aren’t a feminist, then you are a sexist).

Indeed non-belief and atheism can be understood include those who believe in the wrong god(s). They are very ambiguous and unhelpful terms. You too (he said, speaking to a hypothetical religious reader) may seen as a non-believer, an atheist, by another faith. Maybe you don’t believe in Allah or Vishnu or some other divine force. For whatever faith or religion you adhere to, you are a non-believing atheist in all others. So, even you as a believer, have something in common with me: we are non-believing atheists. What divides us is that I and others like me just take this non-belief in all-but-one divine force to its logical conclusion.

What then, you may ask, ought ‘non-believers’ be called? Nothing. We shouldn’t be called anything. It’s like the word racist. I don’t have to describe myself as a non-racist. I am just not racist (as best as I can be within the confines of my own privilege). I don’t need to be described as a non-racist because I do not adhere to the racial prejudices of racists. I’m just not an ignorant arsehole. Except racism is real, and it is really stupid. Like, really stupid. So, it is more like believing in unicorns and Big Foot. I can’t be a-unicornist or a non-Big Foot-er; they aren’t real. Now, while you may be able to believe in unicorns, I cannot believe in unicorns. And equally, I cannot not believe in them – there is nothing for me to believe or not-believe in. A unicorn is a fictional animal, it is something humans invented in our wonderful imaginations, but there is no target at which one can direct belief. There are no unicorns (unless you are child, in which case, why are you reading this, and unicorns are totally real and awesome, like the Ninja Turtles and Jake the Dog). The simple fact of the matter is I don’t believe in fairy tales and other unhelpful and outdated ideas.

Except, of course, that won’t do. I have to be described as something. I have to use words to outline my ideological position. And when I state my position, people will immediately leap to the most common terms: atheist, non-believer. And, frustratingly, I can’t think of a better word. I can’t use ‘secularist’ because that doesn’t encompass the same sense; indeed, I have secular friends who believe religion ought to be an exclusively private matter (I agree). ‘Humanist’ has a similar difficulty. I know some otherwise very rational believers, so ‘rationalist’ won’t do. Objectivist is too abstract, and it has been appropriated by idiots…

I have it. I know what I am.

Free.

I am free of the tyranny of faith, I am free of the burden of belief. I am not beholden to Iron Age concepts of the universe and humanity’s place within it. I am not bound by primitive blood-rites and gross misunderstandings of human biology. I am not tortured by the fear of being punished for eternity by a god laughably described as ‘loving’. I do not have to adhere to a system designed to exclude women, a system often used to oppress and denigrate others. But I am not truly free as these vulgar codes are bonded like a parasite to our modern laws. We do not have to look too far or dig too deep to find the religious underpinnings of sexism, racism, sexual violence, persecution of minorities, and the general abrogation of natural human rights. But I am free in my mind at least, and, slowly, in reality. But until we are all truly free, I suppose ‘atheist’ will have to do.

I assert that we are all equal and have the right to be treated fairly, irrespective of sex, gender, race, belief, or non-belief. The fact that I do not coddle myself with belief in a divine force does not impact on my personal morality or my understanding of ethics – it does, I would argue, improve it, as I am free of the prejudices of faith. I do believe in freedom, which means I believe you are free to believe in divine forces (which definitely do not exist) and that I am free to not, and I look forward to the day when this freedom is paramount. I encourage you to read everything. Read other religious texts, read philosophy, read history and politics. See how faith and belief have shaped the world, and not always for the better. Learn how much of our social ills are rooted in faith and belief in unhelpful and outmoded concepts.

I affirm that there is no god, there are no gods, there never were. We made them up.

I look forward to the day that we are all free.

Comparative Contexts: From Stars, to Humans, to Faith

No human has lived long enough to witness the life-cycle of a star, and yet we know how stars are created, how they persist, how they degrade, how they die. There are two main reasons for this: we know the basic rules that govern their lives (i.e., physics) and we have a tremendous sample size. We understand the principles of atomic fusion, the power of gravity, the inevitability of entropy. We can look up and see stars at every possible stage of development across a variety of compositions, from gaseous nebulae to black holes and supernovae.

Just like how we have a broad understanding of the fundamental forces that underlie the life-cycle of stars, we have a sense of how the human mind works. We know that humans are susceptible to suggestion, are easily misled, how ideas can be reinforced through repetition, and how we rarely question the status quo. The psychology of humans is one designed to defer to authority in youth, bad at breaking habits later in life, and often resolute in erroneous belief near the end. Children are predisposed to listen to their parents as part of the survival instinct, otherwise they might die. Habits formed in youth are extremely hard to break, and humans have a great habit of forming and maintaining habits; it’s basically a mental shortcut we’ve evolved to save time. And old people, after a lifetime of such reinforcements, are often implacable in their ideas no matter how illogical (think of the stereotypical racist grandfather or the grandmother who has boiled potatoes with pizza, because it isn’t dinner without potatoes).

Now, I agree, these are broad generalisations, but we do have a remarkably large sample size; there are, and have been, literally billions of humans, not unlike stars. Even if an alien took a single snapshot of humanity, there are so many of us from so many varied backgrounds that they could arrive at a reasonable hypothesis as to how we are conceived, born, live, and die; they could note the similarities and differences in our cultures; they could see some interesting disparities in wealth and status across gender and race. Basically, we do not have to witness the full lifespan of an object or concept to understand its underlying principles if we have sufficient evidence from various stages of development.

Now, because we have such a large sample size and a basic understanding of humans, in addition to the whole of human history and endeavours, we can draw some interesting conclusions concerning faith and religion.

If we look across the gamut of humanity, we can see a life-cycle of sorts for religion and faith. Taking a snapshot of the world as it stands today, we can see primitive cultures (I do not use this term in a pejorative sense, I simply mean societies which are not considered technologically or organisationally advanced, or what anthropologists refer to as Traditional Cultures) which have ‘rudimentary’ supernatural beliefs revolving around ill-understood natural forces, spirits, or totems, whereas more ‘advanced’ societies have complex religions with elaborate rituals and hierarchies of celestial beings. Through history, we can examine the development of, for example, Judaism from polytheism to monotheism, or how Christianity and Islam picked up ideas from paganism and Zoroastrianism. We can see how faith was born of ignorance and awe of the natural world, how, as cities and hierarchical societies emerged, more hierarchical religions developed alongside to minister to the nascent societies. We have religions born in the full light of history, like the Church of Latter Day Saints (Mormonism) and the so-called ‘cargo cults’, which offer fascinating insights into how religions begin and develop. This is not new information. It seems patently obvious that faith and religions were born of human imagination, like love and hate, art, Doctor Who, and unicorns. Over time, these invented and inventive notions were clarified and codified, laying the foundations for religions. Elaborate stories were told to explain the nature of reality and humanity’s position in it, and came to be understood as ‘true’. Generations of reinforcement and the stifling of free thought led to the situation where to think that these ‘truths’ were just stories was anathema, ridiculous, a challenge to the status quo.

Then there arrived on the scene the modern disciplines of academic History, Archaeology, Science, Philosophy, Anthropology, and Literary Criticism (I say ‘modern’ here, as many disciplines had a strong religio-imperialist spin until very recently, a spin which disappointingly persists in some quarters) which started asking questions and some people got a bit annoyed and started saying that the ‘truths’ they hold can’t be academically analysed. But they can. And they have been. I’ve met Catholics who scoff at Mormons and their recasting of the great journey westward to Utah in the Mosaic tradition, but these same Catholics affirm the reality of the ‘true’ exodus of Moses (for which there is no evidence). The fact of the matter is that both stories clearly demonstrate how people mythologise their own religious past. Islam grafted in the daily prayer routine of Zoroastrianism and the veneration of the pagan Ka’aba. Christian notions of the essentiality and holiness of virginity are drawn from Roman legal demands for ensuring paternity and pagan custom. And, of course, there is the well-trod path of comparisons between the Christian myth and various Egyptian mystery cults, the cults of Mithras and Sol Invictus, and various Graeco-Roman mystery cults which I will not explore here. When you get to the heart of it, many core traditions (or ‘unique selling factors’ if we think of religions as competing marketing brands) of many religions are actually fairly common myths recycled into new narratives.

It is clear, then, that belief in the divine is a human construct. There is always the cry of the religious that Science can’t explain everything, which of course it can’t, and that the God of the Gaps still leaves a space for God. And there is the argument that Faith and Science occupy non-overlapping magisteria, which seems to placate some, bit it is still a platitude, and not a very helpful one at that. The gap that Science can’t fill, the Humanities do. Science drives forward with explaining material reality, investigating everything from strings to stars, and the Humanities give it meaning, and then interrogate that meaning, and then interrogate the validity of that interrogation and its meaning. The magisteria of religion is based on a false premise, and its area of inquiry is better left to Philosophy. Logic might drive the Sciences, but Reason leads the Humanities; Evidence is the foundation to both. Faith and religion are easily explicable frameworks within the context of human development; they arose from fear and awe and became enmeshed in value systems and societal structures. The religious have convinced us that faith is the foundation of a just society when it is, at best, an impediment and, at worst, a corruption. The sheer number of competing faiths and structures of belief, from animism to polytheism to monotheism and all the factions within, do not demonstrate the existence of a divine force, but rather serve as evidence of human inventiveness and susceptibility to belief.

Just as we no longer believe that the stars are the super-celestial fires burning through the celestial sphere, just as we no longer believe that the mind and body are governed by four humours, we must cast aside the unhelpful burden of faith in the divine. We ought to at least put it in its proper place, not prioritising it and its adherents’ beliefs over all other considerations. Once you have seen that it is only shadows that dance on the cave wall, you can never go back. The world outside the cave is full of beauty and wonder. There’s horror and sorrow too, but even that is better than the lie perpetuated by religion; false hope in an afterlife is little encouragement to make positive change in the real world, while sober and rational confrontation with the ills of humankind yield tangible results. It’s about time we stopped wasting energy on Iron Age cults gone viral and effect real change in the world.

Fwuzzerip, a ‘proof’ of Faith

I was hanging out with some Christian friends recently, and, as expected, we spoke about belief, and I get the feeling they want to convert me. They are genuinely baffled as to why I do not believe in ‘God’ (I doubt they put the quotes around that word though). And I am deeply puzzled as to why they do. One told me the story of his conversion; it was touching and clearly important to him, but I couldn’t help but think to myself “you don’t need God, you need a counsellor”. As they were going on about Jesus and miracles and stuff, my mind wandered.

Miracles amuse me. I study them, they are fascinating. But, basically, if one removes faith from the equation, they are basically fairytales and fantasy. And this is how people of one faith categorise the miracles of another. For a Christian, the miraculous deeds of Muhammad are either blasphemy, literary flourish, or fantasy, but the miraculous endeavours of the Christian sky-god and his son (as if that isn’t weird) are true. The intervention of a god is impossible in any other religion except the one they hold. How do they not see how incongruous this is? But this is only one logical flaw among many. I tried to figure out a simple way of summing up all of the issues in one neat example.

I can’t help but think of the arguments like this:

Believer A: According to my God, 1+1=1.

Believer B: Blasphemer! My God affirms that 1+1=3!

Believer C: Oh you silly people, my God holds the undeniable Truth: 1+1=fwuzzerip.

And the atheists sit on the sidelines and say: It’s 2, what is wrong with them? It’s so obviously 2. And why do we have to structure our society, laws, and social mores around their patently ridiculous assertion that it is 1, 3, or fwuzzzerip? This is holding back science and technology and human rights. We get that it helps you in some strange way to believe in 1, 2, or fwuzzerip, but do we all have to suffer for it? Can’t you just keep it to yourself? Seriously, people are dying, you are impeding the advancement of the human race.

Believer A: Ah, silly atheists, it is a miracle how my God makes it 1. Because God.

Believer B: Don’t be an idiot. Your religion is false. Only my God performs miracles. The truth of 1+1=3 says so.

Believer C: Ah, no, duh, fwuzzerip?

Atheists leave, stage left, exasperated, leaving A, B, and C to their curious argument.

***

Of course Believers don’t think that what they say is so strange. They really do think that 1+1=1, 2, or fwuzzerip. Sure, some toe the line, they agree to the answer fwuzzerip because their parents and society told them to. It’s called indoctrination. This should be stopped, obviously. Some believe that they have personally seen the ‘truth’ of fwuzzerip. Fair enough, but keep it to yourself? I love Samurai Jack and van Gogh and the Sandman Chronicles, but I don’t think we should re-model society based on them.

Sorry, dear Reader, no great diatribe here, no anger, no vitriol. Just bafflement. I really just don’t get why my friends want me to believe. When they talk about god and miracles like they are real, it literally makes no sense to me. And I imagine that they are thinking the exact same thing but from the opposite side.

It’s like as if they think Batman is really real and the movies and comics are factual recollections of his life and deeds. And praying to Batman to save you will have as much effect as praying to ‘God’. So yeah, Batman is as real as ‘God’ to me. But not to them, one is really real.

It make as much sense to me as 1+1=fwuzzerip.

(It’s so obviously 2. I mean, you get that, right?)

Reflections on St Patrick’s Day

This Saint Patrick’s Day, in a world where weak-willed politicians looking for an economic leg up court flaxen-haired fascists rather than stand up against tyrannical behaviour, I thought it might be informative to reflect on Patrick, since his day is so widely celebrated.

Patrick, patron saint of the Irish, was a slave. He was ripped from his family, his home, his way of life and forced to live on an isolated mountain to tend sheep in a land where he knew nothing of the culture or language. He escaped his servitude after six years and eventually made his way home.

Patrick was born into a wealthy background. His family owned an estate and had servants. His father was a senior member of the local council and his grandfather held an important position in the church. Patrick gave all of this up and undertook a life of hardship.

Patrick was an emigrant. He left his homeland to serve in another where he was constantly under threat and had to hire bodyguards.

Patrick challenged authority. When the warriors of a distant king took some of his converts as slaves, Patrick wrote to that king demanding their return. When this failed, he wrote a public letter demanding the excommunication of those warriors if they did not do as he demanded.

The Irish, a nation of migrants and refugees, took Patrick with them wherever they went in the world. St Patrick’s Day is a global phenomenon born of the tragedy of Irish history. The curious irony of St Patrick’s Day is that it is an expression of both persecution and community. A diaspora scattered to distant lands clung to ancient traditions and invented new ones to create and reinforce their sense of identity. Their perseverance and success fueled the celebration of the symbol of their identity.

Patrick, the slave who became the saint of emigrants and refugees, is celebrated on shores he never knew existed. The children of the nation that calls him patron are scattered to every corner of the earth. I hope they remember their history and their homeland on this day above all others, in a world where so many minorities are persecuted, where migrants are vilified, and refugees callously turned away. I hope they reflect on how their identity was wrought in the hardships so many now suffer and on the fact that Patrick has more in common with the family being turned away at the border than those who raise a pint of Guinness in his name.

A Leap from the Lion’s Head

Religious faith has always struck me as a very odd thing. I have faith in things, like democracy, the rule of law, and the basic decency of humans (though this faith has been sorely tested in recent months), but the character of this faith is very different from religious faith. There may be no atom of democracy, but history bears witness to its powerful effect; there is no quantum of law, but all civilised people agree to be bound by it (unless that law, of course, undercuts one’s fundamental and inalienable rights); there is no scale of compassion, but no matter the horrors we see on the news, we always see people willing to help (perhaps not enough people, but that is an issue for a different essay). I know these things to be true as I have seen them, I have confidence (by and large) in these relatively abstract, human inventions, even though they aren’t really real. But they still occupy a literal and semantic space far and away from religious faith.

An intense spiritual conviction in something despite the total absence of evidence is truly baffling to me. I can see why, at a stretch, people have or need faith under certain circumstances: it can be very helpful to think there is a greater plan behind your suffering, an arbiter of justice who will punish the unjust, or some great hope of a better world to assuage the natural fear of death. But this faith is, to me, inherently empty as there is no plan, no judge, and you just die in the end. And I find that comforting. I find the truth far more useful than faith. “But”, you might say, dear Reader, “you are contrasting one truth with another, what makes you so sure yours is right?” Aside from the fact that that question cuts both ways, it is, I think, fair to ask the question all the same.

I think a fundamental problem is that religious faith (and here I mean faith patrolled by organised religions within administrative structures and hierarchical systems of governance) places an ownership on Truth, that there is one ‘Truth’ and a cabal of usually white men get to decide what that ‘Truth’ is. Whomsoever contradicts this Truth is, at best, considered inherently aberrant and must be either be corrected or excised. I find this monopolisation of ‘Truth’ to be intrinsically repugnant. You might be thinking, dear Reader, that religions (or your religion, if you have one) don’t do that, that they accept their ignorance in the face of the vast and all-encompassing wisdom of God. But they don’t. They hold up specific texts and doctrines which they state give them the right to pronounce how people ought to live, usually within very strange and often discriminatory parameters, which is tragically ironic since most religions claim to be founded on love. And each religion claims that their sacred text is true, is the literal Truth, which it obviously can’t be because there are so many. Every religion is suspiciously certain that it is the right one…

So that is their Truth, as I see it. You might disagree. And I believe in your right to disagree, even though most religions wouldn’t and would probably persecute dissent given half the chance (I’m not being flippant; see all of history). I don’t claim a monopoly on Truth, nor does any reasonable atheist (I’ll not deny that there are unreasonable ones, but let’s be fair here, unreasonable people of faith are far more dangerous and insidious). I’m not speaking on behalf of the atheist community or anything like that, this is just where I stand. I find that greater truths are found in literature and comics, in TV and cinema, in music and computer games than in religious texts. The internet is littered with stories about people inspired by Hermione Granger and Star Trek ; Game of Thrones and World of Warcraft create international communities of fans where none existed before; and Superman and the Blues allow us to access and process emotions in often surprising ways (Grant Morrison tells us in Supergods of how he once received a letter from a fan saying that his comics discouraged them from committing suicide – Superman literally saved a life). Now, you might say that the Bible or Koran or whatever does all of this too, which they probably do. People have turned to these religious texts for millennia for hope and solace, to learn from the experiences of others. Indeed, all art, I feel, is about one human trying to connect with another, often across vast distances in time and space. Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ makes me happy, and his depiction in Dr Who makes me cry. Both of these are true, but make no claim to Truth. And I doubt Van Gogh would denounce me for my responses.

Religious texts as art, as literature can make the same assertions and can point to the same underlying desires and hopes as any other form of art, like Lord of the Rings (which is a far more coherent text). Art and literature are attempting to achieve the positive aspect of religious faith, the desperate need of humans to connect with one another, to find compassion and understanding, to reach out and say “I have suffered, I have loved, I have lived; have you, do you understand?”. But it does this without prejudice; all modes and manners of expression are deemed to be equally viable. And therein is the failing of religious faith: everything is mediated through one code, one doctrine, however elaborate and wide-ranging it might be. I’ll not deny that religions have inspired great works of art, but it is the art that connects us, not the religion. When I see a Pieta, I am not thinking of God made flesh and his suffering for Man, I am filled with sorrow for a mother who saw her son tortured and killed. I see more valuable meaning in the human aspect, and to attach something unreal and spiritual denigrates the suffering of both mother and son.

I have Christian friends who think I am missing something because I don’t have faith. I’ve explained that there is nothing missing, but they don’t seem to understand. I used to say, “I’m not the one missing something, you are, you fill your emptiness with this story about God you think is real”. I don’t say that anymore, because I now think the space they fill with their story about God I fill with comics and movies and novels and cartoons and comedies and satire and history and art and architecture and friends and family. And they say, so do we, but I can’t help but feel that there is a paucity in their world, a myopic vision.

To me, it’s like religious people really like the colour blue, every shade and hue, and they think blue is the best thing ever. Which is fine, they are totally entitled to that opinion. You can do great things with blue. But they seem to think all of reality should be understood in terms of blue. They say other people are wrong for not thinking blue is awesome beyond compare, that I am somehow lacking for not being utterly devoted to blue, that there must be something missing in me…

Whereas I’m saying, “Have you heard of red and green, and all the colours in between? They’ll blow your fucking mind”.