The Humans

anarchy.

In every life there is a moment. A crisis. One that says: what I believe is wrong. It happens to everyone, the only difference is how that knowledge changes them.

There was comfort in that. The knowledge that wherever you were in the universe, the small things were always exactly the same. Attracting and repelling. It was only by not looking closely enough that you saw difference.

You can’t find happiness looking for the meaning of life. Meaning is only the third most important thing. It comes after loving and being.

(On Earth, incidentally, civilisation is the result of a group of humans coming together and suppressing their instincts.)

Names are a symptom of a species which values the individual self above the collective good.’

There are no new ingredients in the universe, and humans – however they may look – are made of roughly the same things we are.

Because, yes, sure, God could not exist. But then neither could humans. So, if they believed in themselves – the logic must go – why not believe in something that was only a fraction more unlikely?

Of being a mortal creature who was essentially alone but needed the myth of togetherness with others. Friends, children, lovers. It was an attractive myth. It was a myth you could easily inhabit.