An old letter I wrote when I was 24.

Before I stopped believing in deities.

You should find, great pride, Bill, that your thoughts often keep me awake at night. Wondering… and contemplating. I know the last time we spoke, we argued the pursuit of science and how that aspect falls into the even broader spectrum of spirituality and the existence of God. There’s a part of me that says, Bill, you’re absolutely right… but there’s also a part of me that keeps me awake at night fathoming if it can all be so concrete. I’m this great pendulum… or… it’s like a game of pong… the paddles are my faith… and when the ball disappears it’s as if it falls into the scientific part of my brain. Well, what of this my devout lover of facts… Albert Einstein? One of the most influential men in scientific history… creator of the theory of relativity… how was it that he was so in touch with the idea of a greater being? He quotes that, “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”



I still sit on the fence, when I wonder if my prayers will ever be answered. As a matter of fact, I still believe that prayer is one of our subconscious ways we tune in and actually get to listen and rationalize with ourselves. However, at the same time, I don’t think we’d have that capability if there was no God, to an extent. The complexities we have as humans, how could it be possible if we were made of dust and matter? Would there even be such a thing as remorse?



I don’t know, I’ve obviously put a lot of thought into it and think about how deep down, there has to be some sort of sadness inside of you, if what you say you believe is actually truth. I talked to a few friends about it, and my dad, I told them… and don’t be offended… but I said something amongst the lines of. “I was talking to my friend Bill about this…” I caught them up on the ideas we tossed back and forth. And my ending note was, “I felt kind of bad… it was as if he were that kid that wanted to believe in Santa but was devastated at the fact that he saw his dad slipping presents under the Christmas tree.”



My mind is kind of in overload, and I suppose that’s what I’m writing to you. After the hospital fiasco, I keep having these strange dreams about New York. Last night, I even dreamed about my little brother’s death, which was horrifying! I used to dream of his death all the time when I was a kid. One that I can recall specifically was one where these men had buried him in a shallow grave without a coffin. (I must have been around 5 or 6 at the time.) “Breanna, he’s dead… leave him.” The men with the shovels said to me bowing their heads. I didn’t listen though, I jumped into the hole and held on to him told him it would be ok. And when I woke up, I remember crying and crawling into his crib and just hugging him. Last night… last night, I dreamt that I was sitting at a table with my parents, and he was there but he was transparent. We were discussing his death. “Does it hurt? Are you sad? What do you feel?” He answered slowly, “I don’t feel anything at all, Bree… it’s kind of nice.” Then it started to rain. He looked up and said, “Wow, I’m actually excited for the rain and running into it.” He got up from the table and ran outside. My mom and dad just remained with their heads down. So I got up and ran after him, held his hand and ran with him up this hill. He told me he was leaving. “Do you feel better, Bree?” I started to cry, told him I didn’t know… but that I wasn’t ready. I looked down… and I was pregnant. The dream prior to that, I was in NY and I was pregnant. It’s all too weird. Like… what’s the Freudian interpretation of it all?



Sometimes I get wrapped up into lame metaphors and I bend myself around them and my eyes are like windows into some surreal universe, one that only exists in books and dramatic movies… and I don’t speak for days. I shut my phone off and lay out on my lawn underlining excerpts in books, writing on my hands and listening to music. It’s something I’ve done since I was little. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.



But for some reason, I wanted to talk to you about my thoughts on God and the surreal universe that exists in my head at times… I have to stop myself though, because I’m pretty certain that I could write a novel about it.



I guess the point of this letter is… I think about what you say a lot before I fall asleep at night, and then I think about you… strictly in a plutonic sense. I wonder a lot… I wonder if you’re afraid of death. Because I think about my death a lot… and although, I don’t want to go… I’m never afraid and never will be.