There are those who would say that you are bliss, but to be perfectly honest, that’s probably one of the most ignorant aphorisms I can think of. People who conceive of you as a state of bliss no doubt attribute their own non-blissful state to being caused exclusively by the burden of some particular knowledge that they perceive themselves to possess. Others who appear not to be burdened by that knowledge are assumed to be, well, ignorant of it, and being unburdened, they are assumed to be blissful. Thus, those fraudulent fools who would try to convince us that knowledge is some sort of cumbersome thing need only point to their effluent misery to confirm for themselves their wisdom. Those of us who know better, on the other hand, who have gazed unflinchingly upon your hideous face long enough to clearly see that no one is smiling, know that you are actually the mother of all monsters, and that mommy’s favorite little monster is fear.
You’re truly one of the few things out there that are absolutely awful. You, fear, and all the rest of your monstrous brood are nothing more than ruiners. You are the reason we can’t have nice things. Not understanding what’s going on in the world that exists both around us and within us, and the utter impotence which that makes us feel, gives rise to the anxiety, aggression, bigotry, violence, hatred, and abuse that permeate our lives and minds, rooted firmly and deeply in fear. Fear that is always born of you.
Do you want to know what the real kicker is, though? People point to you and endlessly exalt the high and mighty name of god. You serve as evidence for the irrational, and trap the weak minded in a Sisyphean disaster of circular reasoning. And day by day, year by year, as I have struggled to escape the layers of your treacherous grasp, I am forced to realize that none of my prior epiphanies have ever in actuality lead to a complete evasion of the grotesque infection of your insidious tendrils. When I think myself finally free of you, you are still quite there, now merely hidden in a sufficiently clever disguise, time and time again. Are you to be my eternal companion, an apparition whose very presence I go to the grave questioning? You are Nietzsche’s abyss, and I tire of your shitty staring contest.
There are those who would say that what someone doesn’t know, can’t hurt them. These frustrating masters of rationalization, however, are just blatantly being willfully ignorant (willfully you-ish?) of things like allergic reactions, stray bullets, and undiagnosed cancer, and they need to shut the fuck up. You’re incredibly powerful, Ignorance, and you ruin lives. You ruin everything. I write you this letter in the hope that you simply know not what you do.