When we think about problems, normally we are conditioned to think about a grizzly bear or a zombie attack. I normally think about those "worst case" scenarios. What's worse than being mauled by a grizzly, or brain-eaten by a zombie?
Not much, really. Unless you happen to take the enlightened view of how we actually work. Evolutionary theory (which I pretty much subscribe to...minus some flaws) would have us say that we are simply eating, fucking and shitting machines. Barely better than monkeys.
I contend there is something much, much different about the human animal. The difference is not simply the use of tools, nor of planning for the future, nor of something as simple and universal (well beyond carbon-based life forms) as fear.
We, and by "we" I mean "I", can lie to ourselves. I think that is really what makes us different. Not that I can lie to you, because there are so many studies already done about how animals lie to each other, but because I can lie to myself. That lie takes many forms: I can be different, I am hidden, and (the worst one) someone loves me.
The sad, ultimate truth is that nobody really loves anybody else. Our history and our minds deny us that gift. I love people because of who they are in relation to me. Not because they draw a breath. I don't care about breathers. I love the ones I do because they better me. Or because I can better them. It's all very solipsistic. Without me, who would love you?
Unfortunately, the actual answer is: somebody else would. And, more often than not, that somebody will love you better than I ever could. And, unfortunately, someone else could love me better than you do.
There is a reason I read novels and not philosophy/theology/history. Because I am willing to understand that I want to be fed lies. Lies which are beautiful slabs of bacon wrapped in eggs and cheese. They will kill me, my novels. But they will never feed me hope. Because I know that their words are like broken test-tubes that drive themselves deeper into the only thing I have left. But they are so beautiful.
This is exactly what makes me different from dolphins, ravens, orangutans, and possibly you. I will accept that pain as a price of beauty. But I will no longer believe something or someone who pretends to have a truth, but does the same things as my lying authors do to me. Beauty has no reason, it just is; truth must justify itself. A better writer than I will ever be once said "Truth is beauty and beauty truth." That's a lie.
They are disparate and desperate enemies.
I have lived in more places, have traveled more miles, and known more people than I care to remember. But one thing is finally wedging its way into my heart: I'm just tired. I have failed myself. But we all have failed ourselves. I have failed you. But we all fail the people we know. I am just tired of you failing me.
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