"Trust Me, I know what I'm Talking About"

Where did we come from? Why are we here?
Questions made famous by the gentle, soothing speak-and-spell voice of the late Stephen Hawking. Yet these questions have been nipping at humanity’s ankles ever since the first of our ancestors looked up into the night sky and thought: “Damn.”

But how do we even begin to answer these questions when we still can’t fully grasp what “here” means?
(Look up hard solipsism—it’s hilarious.)

Many throughout history have tried to tackle these cosmic riddles with about as much understanding of existence as could fit on the back of a cigarette packet.

The first attempt? Proto-religious dribble about some bipolar monkey-bear spirits roaming the forests, demanding constant offerings of wheat bales and virgins to ensure an easy harvest.
Of course, this was all before we understood what a season was.

This mentality—if I can call it that—eventually evolved into a more familiar, deity-centered structure of platitudes and moral prescriptions that we’ve come to know and love. (Or tolerate, depending on your mileage.)

All of it happened without any meaningful increase in what was scribbled on that metaphorical cigarette packet.
Only much later did our needy little brains start to actually make sense of things.
Turns out lightning isn't Thor chucking his toolbox around. Did you know that?

We are, slowly but surely, progressing toward a point where humanity can maybe tentatively be considered not entirely hopeless in terms of what we know and what we can explain. Patience is key. And truth is the lock.

The thing is: we like stories. We like stories with an ending.
We’d much rather have a finished story—true or not—than one still being written. Knowing is a powerful feeling.
Even if we’re just pretending to know, the brain lights up the same. And it’s this feeling—this intoxicating illusion of certainty—that so many, throughout history, have died and killed for.

But here’s the kicker:

No matter your routine—whether you daily kneel on a special carpet next to a compass, weekly speak Latin over a cup of red wine, or monthly throw ostrich blood at confused infants—
There is no greater power, no deeper beauty, than the phrase:
“I don’t know.”

An unimaginable plethora of fact, nonsense, and giggle-worthy immenseness opens up the moment you admit it.

Where did we come from? Why are we here?

I haven’t a clue.