Thursday, March 18, 2010

I have an aunt who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, she underwent her first round of chemotherapy this week. This erstwhile agile, active woman is now confined to her bed, and needs to be tended to every two hours, she needs proteins, milk and most of all company. Her only daughter is currently giving her class 12 board exams, and showing maturity far beyond her years but she too needs a helping hand, in such a time, all that her closest relatives can think about is how offering help will affect them and their lives.

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?

Makes me want to stop believing entirely but. . .