Written by walter

Sunday, 27 January 2013

We may safely assume that animals, excluding man, have no faculty of imagining; therefore, the primordial man's family, inside the dreadful caves, during the perilous long nights, had no alternative but to listen to the stories told by the old man as today's bedtime stories. Perhaps, he pointed out to the moon while inventing his stories.

Naturally, through imagination, he formed new images and sensations that could not perceived through sight, hearing, or other senses. Maybe he was invited by other groups to entertain them and for compensation he was fed without having to go hunting, a parasite life which led to the formation of preachers.

By the passage of time, generations after generations, the fictitious stories were verbally retold by these good narrators, until symbols were invented and the story teller was invited to narrate his stories in certain places, thus making him a powerful person and, a founder of a major religion.

There is a mystery involved here as why so many literate people of today accept the fabricated stories as true while they, in essence, do not entirely believe its basics.

One unscientific explanation is that the duration of time might have stored the data in an empty instinct module. Perhaps the following extract can shed a light on this obscure mentality spread all over the world, Mary Flannery O'Connor (1925 -1964), Greenleaf, Short Story:

"Mrs. May stopped still, one hand lifted to her throat. The sound was so piercing that she felt as if some violent unleashed force had broken out of the ground and was charging toward her. … she rushed forward…she saw Mrs. Greenleaf sprawled on her hands and knees off the side of the road, her head down.

"Mrs. Greenleaf!" she shrilled. "What's happened!"

Mrs. Greenleaf raised her head. Her face was a patchwork of dirt and tears and her small eyes, the color of two field peas, were red-rimmed and swollen, but her expression was composed as a bulldog's. She swayed back and forth on her hands and knees and groaned, "Jesus, Jesus."

Mrs. May winced. She thought the word, Jesus, should be kept inside the church building like other words inside the bedroom. She was a good Christian woman with a large respect for religion, though she did not, of course, believe any of it was true. "What is the matter with you?" she asked sharply.

"You broke my healing," Mrs. Greenleaf said, waving her aside. "I can't talk to you until I finish."

Mrs. May stood, bent forward, her mouth open and her stick raised off the ground as if she were not sure what she wanted to strike with it.

"Oh Jesus, stab me in the heart" Mrs. Greenleaf shrieked. "Jesus, stab me in the heart!" and she fell back flat in the dirt, a huge human mound, her legs and arms spread out as if she were trying to wrap them around the earth.

Mrs. May felt as furious and helpless as if she had been insulted by a child. "Jesus," she said, drawing herself back, "would be ashamed of you. He would tell you to get up from there this instant and go wash your children's clothes!'"

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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