Human beings have occupied 1% of the earth’s existence.
And we continue to demand a reason for being here, a greater purpose, something beyond ourselves.
We find God, and instead of making religion a story about the Divine, we make it about us.
We find art, and we use it to tell stories and explain the inexplicable, to give reasons for our pain, suffering, joys, and triumphs as if they were anything less than ordinary or expected.
All evidence points to humans being a blip on the radar, a fleeting breath, a candle extinguished in a gust, but we refuse to accept this as true.
We push ourselves towards greater milestones and achievements.
We make and consume art and culture as if it can define us.
We donate to charities and get involved with our communities, thinking our small actions will result in some extraordinary greatness in the end.
We fall in love and start families and make friends, claiming these humans, who are as finite and temporary as we are, are worthy of the bonds which we forge with them.
We devote time to satisfying our egos and desires, stuffing ourselves with more and more, realizing we will never be satisfied.
Why aren’t we satisfied with the fact that we are alive?
Why am I not satisfied enough with that?
Life is silly, and it’s sincere.
It’s stupid, and it’s rational.
It’s so human and so holy.
It drives me nuts. It gives me peace.