Whoever it was that made the mountains tall and the stars far-away and bright must have known about beauty and life, and the strangeness of it all.

How come there’s an earth so perfectly tailor-made for every little being to co-exist; there’s the bees, which live their own little busy lives, with social ladders to climb and honey to make, and then there’s ants cleaning the environment from unwelcome intruders by eating them and there’s little fishes feeding from even smaller fishes, being eaten by even bigger ones? It’s one endless, beautifully practical cycle of existing. And then there’s us. And we want too much, too soon, too quickly, and we throw the whole thing off. We make the plants die, and the animals, we destroy their habitats and the air around them, we invent things to make everything go faster and yet we never seem to have enough time. We wage wars against each other, decided by few and carried out by everyone else, we tear and burn and bomb and take, all the while destroying the very thing that is being fought about –

whoever it was that made the mountains tall and the stars far-away and bright must have cried when animals started to walk on two legs.