The Question

Looking out of a window onto the world, you wonder if there is an awareness that soaks each living cell, something that sews together all life into a symphony playing to the score written by a single entity. Or is everything a random throw, discrete forms let loose within a mindless programme loaded with a bias to survive, a world where even charity and love are attributes selected to give the species a social advantage, a trick to win the game. What then art, a sublime song sung by the human soul or something made in the workshop of a brain to keep the human species entertained, nothing more than an evolutionary pill to save us from going insane whilst welded to our purpose. Yet so much seems superfluous to the mere act of breeding, that we create books, galleries and concert halls to store, the evidence we could be more.