WeAre

non durat nee prius, lectiones de Ozymandias

Whether pale blue dot, marble floating free, or, curvature now clear, a mere mile above, my knees buckle that I am here and that I am me. But we, certainly not I, matter much, statistically and such. Hard to reconcile humanity's presence as one of the universe's presents when presently it's apparent our irreverence in the grand scheme seems clear and deems us irrelevant. Weighty, the wonder we are, A species simplified to being a collective Schrodinger's cat; objective analysis would say that we're nearly infinitesimally small but still the belle of the evolutionary ball. Despite bias and insufficient sample size we've clearly ruled ourselves in favor of one side. We have examined our history and from those observations derived the idea that since we are, we are everything. Stunned not by our luck at just living, and living long enough to evolve into what we are, but astonished by our own delusions, Adonises all, godborn creatures conned by creation myths that pampered us, psychologically stunted to the science saying, You are so nothing that your miracle of existing is just about cancelled out. And here the seed of my frustration sprouts:

we are the perpetual teenager ignorant our own frailty, seeing only overt invincibility. Daily our scope steadily expands, seeing new sights that redefine our meaning, understanding, of our being, gives us a chance to re-evaluate the state of our vanity. We watch with slacken maw as that opportunity zips past, akin a shooting star. Please, people, think were special, we are; think were inessential, we are; tinier than the atom on the tip of a pencil and also exploding with unlimited potential. We are incapable of accepting the second half; The Universe, cold and uncaring, sees us flex our muscles of flimsy might and has a good laugh. Arrogant beings have trouble seeing the need to tamper their pride. Whole galaxies have gone, yet for a blip we've survived, long enough to think we are intelligently designed and on that notion millions have fought and died. So unique, with innumerable faults, many nights I've considered what we are, what we could be, and cried. Though, the further away I see it, our planet, the quicker I forget the slaughters and shit. Rather than our worst moments, I'm rapt marveling our monuments and gravity-damning giants

resting upon that speck; those monolithic scrapers that soar become laughably molecular and worthy a scoff when jettisoned a modest million miles off. Awesome-to-invisible in a simple perspective switch. Those architectural pomposities are so silly from space but fare better when compared against our atrocities: the horrors and torture and rape and hate, viewed far off or nigh beg me to question "why?" In all the spatial majesty known, how is such cruelty bred and allowed generational spread while so few look to the wonder, instead content on abstract plunder in hopes endless greed will relieve the gnawing hole in their heart, the doubts that clout the whole of their head, believing their high-end souls can be saved by depraved dividend paydays that buy boxes at The Met while the proletariat swap the opera for the alleyway where a Heckler and Koch redefines a hostile takeover; disproportionate socioeconomic decline demonizes and damns the hapless trying to fight poverty and crime that spiked and climbed after urban whites took flight whilst the dividend dickhead continues the market manipulation and preps a Saint Lucia vacation I digress,

it's easy to obsess over the excess of avenues common crooks and white-collar execs take to make the world a worse place. Just this little rant so far and our awful arrogance ought to subside a bit; a revelation that should awaken us, shaken us and make us more stable: we are closer to ants than angels. Spied from distances deep, this new view should allay our ways, yet, always, our hubristic minds keep thinking we are special past measure, we believe we are existence's pleasure. The distances and depths that represent our dimensions don't do a damn thing to sway our narrow conception that we the Universe's treasure. We could fix our outlook quick and it all hinges on our neck. Eyes built for lateral living, were luckily gifted a spine to look up; more people need to see past the blue sky to where a sea of stars cry out, erupt in supernova blasts asking us to heed fast a simple call, we are not the end all. I rave with poor articulation, deprive you easy explanation, when all I mean to say is, Were beautiful for being, the blade of grass poking through the concrete crack. Were also happenstance,

a chance occurrence that came to be. We need to appreciate that not as a sign of capital-D "Design," but an unforeseen affair, you see. So, let us make the most of it. Humanity absent humility ensures our futility. While we are, We are not all there is, it's as simple as this.