I have spoken up about the south before but no one ever believes me. I began with the truth but the truth wasn’t enough for them. I told them about the segregated pools but they said I was making it up. I told them about the book burnings and music burnings held out in the country by the fathers and sons of the churches, hand in hand and always praying. They told me book burnings don’t happen anymore. I told them about the arson, the meth, the games, the murder, and the incest, but they said I was indulging in fantasy. It doesn’t really matter to me, but I must be careful now to keep the truth to myself. It is true that most people are not very well cut for the world, at least they do not really understand it. One man came rushing to me before class during a semester abroad and showed me an article. “According to this article, if space is infinite, then probability dictates that there must be complete copies of ourselves in existence, somewhere in the universe!” I laugh at him because he is an idiot. “That and an infinite procession of other selves, as well,” I said, pitying him. I remember thinking about the ontological probabilities of existence in an infinite universe, with infinite matter and time, when I was barely ten, and even then it didn’t seem too significant. It seemed like wordplay more than anything else. As I grew up and discovered the academic discourse of philosophy in the last twenty-six hundred years it seemed like wordplay more and more to me. Wordplay turned into tautology, tautology turned into axiomatic logic, logic became existential; logic isn’t a language, it’s a play on words, and I feel like I’m one of the few men alive whose aware of its fictionality. I met an Atheist and told him he made me sick to my stomach. He said how stupid it was to believe in God and I told him it was stupid to believe in logic. He laughed in my face because he does not understand either God or logic and if I were in his place, I probably would have just laughed too. I stopped trying to talk to him because I did not want to hurt his feelings, and I knew that we were speaking different languages anyway. Thank God I’m a Christian, I repeat in my head; thank God I’m a Christian. I could have been born into one of ten million conditions and I was born into the kingdom of Christ in perpetual modernity, one of the chosen few in a world of incredibly bounty. But what have I done for my share of this? Other than get born, I have done nothing. I own nothing of my own in this world; it has all been a gift to me. The world is a gift and I’ve done nothing but get born to deserve it, and being born is not as virtuous a thing as its sometimes made out to be. There is power to change the world here and I’m too afraid to use it. I’ve given up because I’m incredibly wise. I can see through all the layers of the earth. The history of the universe is transparent to me and I can explore freely wherever I choose. There are warriors still in the jungles and they sleep on the back of the earth under moonlight, worshipping the commercial airliners that now and then pass by in the distance. Not even poisoned arrows can pierce that mighty, metal hull; the wings of the angel are made of aluminum, the engines are made out of steel.