Tyler Fugazzie

Dear God,

Who are you? Why are you? Where are you? I have been worshipping or trying to worship others in your stead. You are not a man nor a woman, there is no way you’re gendered. You are not white or black or Hispanic or Asian, there is no way you have an Earthly ethnicity. Anyone who cites old texts as a counterpoint to this needs to retreat before they make fools of themselves.

Are you the originator of the simulator some billionaires claim we currently live in? Are you the source of the WikiLeaks? Are you okay with people committing sins and rejecting you in favor “masters” and manipulators of pleasure or intellect? I want to see your standup routine. It’s probably hilarious. I want you to upload a reputable English dictionary into my consciousness. I would also like a cheat sheet to interpreting my dreams. I recently read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” and he wrote something about how it’s a theft trying to pray to you for certain private gain instead of expressing gratitude and reconnecting to the oneness of everything.

You’re the network of humor, insight, intuition, outrage, solvency, distraught, scientific progress, miracle, personal branding, and so much more. You’re the background stage of visual, verbal, aural, touch, taste, spiritual, emotional, familial, social, mental, mechanical, biological, physical. You’re the infinite dimension, ∞D. You’re the byproduct of distraction. You’re the question’s conclusion. You’re the unanswered’s resolution. You’re the mystery’s absurd nonsense. You’re nature’s wisdom. You’re what we try to approximate with our renderings of the sublime.

I’m not sure if this is faith or folly.

Are we quantumly entangled. Are you me? Am I you? Aren’t you shared with all my brothers and sisters? I prayed to you when I was younger. But I wanted insurance from unfortunate fate, protection for loved ones, and the easy acquisition of things. Maybe when I love myself we can then converse as more equals. Maybe I can better understand you if I don’t treat you like a magical vending machine.

Even now, there’s an instinct urging me to ask you the secrets of secrets that would help me in the superficial, practical. That’s a dying desperate part of me, hugged obsolete by the dreamy soup of Love filling my spirit. I will guide myself through the pitfalls of thought suppression, distraction, and avoidance. I will take responsibility for myself. I will be an obedient servant to myself, and none else. I will honor and embrace my nature and my truth.

I am still discovering my gifts. I hope to better know the difference between an expansion and enrichment of a gift and an imposture of seductive yet unfitting gifts evidenced in others. I’m starting to understand what others mean by “God helps those who help themselves.” I don’t want to end this letter on a quote.

Are you single?

Love,
Tyler