Do not utter this word.
Clean your mouth out if you do. Gargle and rinse with gasoline.
Do not ever say or think this world.
It is pure BS. A dream. An excursion into playtime.
Expunge the notion from your lazy idolatry.
Miracles are “junk food of the soul.” They do nothing for you other than present an escape hatch from self-imposed responsibility.
Today, a guy I like a lot, posted this on his Facebook wall. He’s young, so he doesn’t know better.
Unlike me. Snark off.
A homeless guy wandering Hollywood. On his last leg, eating a gifted hamburger. They strike up a conversation. The last thing the old man says before parting is “I need a miracle.”
You know what? That is absolute bullshit.
If you’ve historically resorted to this fantastical escape hatch every time life sucks, I can thoroughly understand why you are copping free burgers from strangers. And you know what? Even if you truly have fallen into some tough times and are buried to your neck in bad luck, you still have no right to call for a miracle. Miracles are for ninny’s. A dying desperate man with dignity will merely wish for strength and courage. He will wish for his heart to be larger, his soul to be sharper. He will not wish for a miracle. Miracles are for pussies.
I felt bad for the old man on my friend’s Wall until I read this. My respect vanished. Does this mean I do not feel bad for him? Of course not. I”m human and I (believe it or not) care about my fellow man. Suffering is awful. Pain is awful and there is no shortage of it as Mother Fate doles it out freely and blindly.
The moment you begin to think “miracle” is the moment you have given up and relegated your own worth to inconsequential doom. If you so much as utter the word “miracle,” you have lost the battle. You have succumbed to your own futility. Never give up and by that I mean never wish for a miracle. If you die, if you fail, if you wither away to dust, do it on your own terms and of your own accord. Never beg your soul’s forgiveness because that is what a miracle is. A miracle is ceasing to be a whole man.
I suppose part of religion is relinquishing control to a deity who can supply miracles if you please them. God’s are third-party miracle workers. Holy middle men. The minute you own your life, you own that special self-imposed miracle, is the same minute you defeat helplessness. The homeless man in my friend’s Facebook post was undoubtedly stricken with some viciously bad luck.
Luck is yours to shape or destroy. Fuck the miracle. This is life.
Deus ex machina is for fools and children.