Cannot transform myth #8
  Ryan Pratt

Sharing that you don’t believe in god is an unconscious
means of talking about yourself, like answering a remark
on the first snow with a caveat about your trip to the alps.
The god declaration wears its own robe, a bruised but stoic
tone adopted when so-&-so doesn’t call on your birthday.
I wonder how many verdicts rest on the daydream-come-
letdown of IKEA catalogs & whether I’m guilty of the
same, broadly condemning breakfast when what I’m really
upset by is my choice of cereal? On the bus I heard a father
tell his son that no one else has his fingerprint; the artisan
was credited in absentia. It’s hard enough to spite a complex
system of beliefs linking many of history’s great minds,
let alone a box of Alpen cereal that shoots a plume of
powder into my eyes each time I absentmindedly reseal
its inner bag. Often, when someone lampoons a perfectly
fun question about the cosmos, I wonder what they had
for breakfast.

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