There was a full moon this week. It was very bright and I felt drawn to the window to stare at it for a little while and think some existential thoughts. I thought how cold it looked, and how close.
And then I looked at the far-away constellations and considered how nothing really matters out there; that my concerns down here in my warm kitchen are meaningless and inconsequential; that from a cosmological point of view, I will be gone in the blink of an eye. Life is short. I poured myself another glass of wine.
In the early days of organised religion, which seemed to coincide with the rise of agriculture, where, having left nomadic hunter-gathering behind and gaining more time to sit and consider the universe, the first real stories about the meaning of everything expanded. If you could comfort people with a good story, if you were a talented storyteller yourself, you may start to gain followers. People would hear you were in the area and come to listen.
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