Letter to my Loved Ones

When I die, I do not care if it is met with prayer, but don’t dare say that God is there. I am a heathen and for that reason when I stop breathing if your god is real, I am banished to hell, you must come to terms that I am being burned for all eternity by your loving god for being unconvinced of words. Heaven will not gain another angel, I will be mangled, strangled by lakes of fire. Speak of my character and how I compared to expectations, what I accomplished as a man not because I was compelled by the fear of everlasting damnation, but what I did of my own coordination. My own free will, the kindness I showed without hopes for a reward. I did not have salvation to look toward, yet every day I trekked forward. If I lived a life of dignity and integrity, know I did it not out of necessity but because that’s what made sense to me, no rulebook could threaten me. My moral compass is powered by empathy. I approached every situation intellectually and with my idea of what respect should be. Divine levitation was never the goal, but there is a human soul. Simply put, it’s an expression, often how we’re perceived in remembrance, our soul is who we are alone with our own presence. It flickers when we’re forced in wicked positions, it’s our personality encapsulated into our decisions. It’s our inner being, our consciousness, our fucking humanity. My soul will live on in my tombstone cursed by insanity, glimmering in it’s new home for a few moments when you remember my name, but even if your god is myth, you will still only see flames. My legacy will be burned to ash, my soul tainted because free thinking is “bad”. So don’t you dare stand at my funeral and read scripture from my supposed abuser, if anything, read this, my final words for the future. I’ve no Stockholm Syndrome; I lived my life for myself. If I’m damned for that, I pray you worship something else.