What a silly species we are. So aware of our existence, so feeling, so conscious—and yet so unsure of our own origin. We explore the heavens and exploit the earth; we analyze, organize, and dissect the most complex bodies in nature and we in turn create immensely intricate technologies; we evolve and adapt and resolve and improve—and yet, we don't know where we came from, or what it's all for.
We speculate, though. We form theories and defend them with bullets and bulletins. We rally others to our side. We ignore our ignorance and bury our questions in material pursuits. We assume arrogant airs and put our trust in our towers of intellect. We fill our heads with philosophy, psychology, and self-help formulas. We take up causes and lose ourselves in the effort. We take pills to soothe our fragmented and painfully incoherent worldviews.
But whenever we stop to listen, we become slowly aware of a ringing in our ears. It's the ring of our loneliness, the depth of our emptiness, and it is harmonized by the groaning of the earth; the whole world shaking with the knowledge of its own brokenness.
But it's a frightening sound, because we, who have the conquered the earth, have no answer for our condition, no knowledge of who we are. So we turn our iPods up, take more pills, watch more television, and work more hours. We express our opinions louder, longer, and with more violence. We pretend we know who we are and we pay anyone and anything who promises to intoxicate our minds with quiet. But it never lasts long and peace proves elusive.
We have built for ourselves a magnificent world—especially in the West. But our great structure, our fantastic edifice, our invincible society is afloat on these unanswered questions. And, I'm afraid, sooner or later the nausea gets to all of us. Mortality just doesn't seem like enough, and the dull ache for more weighs our bodies down.