From Ape to Adult: A Human Reckoning
We are apes in clothing. Flesh and blood, bones and breath. Slice us open, and there's no divine glow—just meat. You won’t find wisdom in a biopsy or godliness under a microscope.
Yet we walk through a world of miracles. Phones that answer every question. Machines that fly. Cures for plagues that used to kill kings. We didn’t make these things. We were born into them, heirs to thousands of years of human struggle and ingenuity.
And still—we're not satisfied. We scroll, search, consume. We drown in abundance, yet thirst for meaning. We're apes with godlike tools but no clear idea what to do with them.
You live at the bleeding edge of all human advancement. Every breath you take is entangled with electricity, satellite signals, and the cumulative carbon footprint of progress. You weren't born into horse-drawn wagons or Martian colonies. You landed here—messy, bewildered, modern.
Of course you feel out of place. You're not broken. You're just adjusting.
We can grasp the deepest riddles of the universe. We solved math, split the atom, and mapped DNA. We've even tried to index God. Science hasn't killed the divine—it’s just made it harder to fake.
You were sent to school not to memorize but to inherit. 1+1=2 wasn’t yours to discover, but it was gifted to you. The past is a platform. You were meant to leap from it—not burn it down.
Rabbits can’t lie. Eagles can’t sculpt. Dolphins don’t make religions. These quirks—our lies, our art, our gods—are human. You are the ape that paints caves and dreams of heaven.
But dreams fade. The happiness you imagined as a child—winning, arriving, climaxing—never lasts. The thrill drops off. We chase pleasure like it's permanent. It isn’t. Ask Freud: the drive behind civilization isn’t peace—it’s distraction. We turned lust into cities. Fantasies into frameworks. That’s how bridges got built.
You are not an original, but you are not meaningless.
We are built from the dreams of those before us, and the wreckage, too. Our minds are miraculous—wired for stories, cravings, awe. You wouldn’t even know to imagine God unless someone told you the word. Concepts give shape to mystery.
You’re still the monkey. But now you’re the monkey asking, “Why am I here?”
That’s a hell of a step.