We each treat our language as the only one, the single tongue
suitable for humankind, yet we know with uneasy certainty
that ours is one of thousands spoken on this tiny planet. We search
the skies in the hope of finding answers, knowing with uneasy
certainty that our skies are but a single blood cell in a
circulatory system one hundred billions times larger than
the Milky Way and all its neighboring galaxies.
We are amused at the ancient Greeks and their childish beliefs
in Poseidon and Zeus, Aphrodite and Apollo, yet we sense with
uneasy certainty that the search for meaning began with pleas
to a controlling cosmos. With uneasy certainty, we sense that
search is a struggle filled with maddeningly expressive
human emotions and human frailties, human traits emphatic in
their fragility, yet boundless in their arrogant belligerence.
We are afraid of humility, sensing with an uneasy certainty that
acknowledgement of the ultimate impotence of the human race is
tantamount to deference to the unknown, as if we have the capacity
to know what hides outside the boundaries of our capability to
comprehend. Unless we know, we sense with uneasy certainty, we are
powerless, so we contrive constructs that will explain the inexplicable,
failing to recognize the frivolity of the ancient Greeks in ourselves.
We sense with uneasy certainty that our paths follow an elliptical
orbit around secrets we simply cannot unlock, secrets hidden not
through willful disguise but by natural obscurity, the same way some
sounds are withheld from our ears but given freely to the ears of
dogs, who become our masters when we let our guards down. The complexity
that bedevils our waking hours and sets us afire with passion for answers
always leads us to the uneasy certainty that life is what it is, nothing more.