(inspired by Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens)
Stories are my weakness. They’re not much more than someone wading through darkness, creating a scenery of patched together truths and nonsense. It’s what makes our human species unique — that we create a scenery and seek to push through it. It’s what we end up calling dreams — or, simply, taxonomy. The creation of semantics or financial mathematics. We’ll believe in something by what it means to us. Or by what it seems to encompass. In that we trust. And we’ll create certain theories that will, somehow, prove it.
And, still, we are startled when we reach that point of no return and surpass it. The point where the invisible that’s been floating around us brushes our skin and calls our attention to make itself seen — only to go up in flames and burn, evaporating into the sky above us. For once we see its nothingness, it is finally released from our grip and all we can do is just sit there; uneasy. Perhaps, cursing the sky for this intangible treason. Perhaps, drying an eye and releasing a smile, relieved from an ugly confusion.
But, regardless of our reaction or how we express it, we sit there startles, nevertheless, and dumbfounded.
Yet, are these stories really an illness or, perhaps, rather something we are blessed with? What other momentum do we have to work with to keep drawing our narrative further and onward? What other melody do we have to dance with? Than the one allowing us to bounce between narratives. Is it possible to say that there is no other joy we can hope to accomplish — as long as we are willing to give up the dream of the perfect tune that we were hoping to conceive for the tune that we, actually, are going to finish.