This whole intelligent design hustle, this super natural con job, it’s the kind of beautiful lie that only works if you never actually open your eyes and look at what’s sitting right in front of you. These witches want you to believe that some all powerful, all knowing force had infinite time and infinite juice to build this thing, and this, this broken, blood-soaked carnival, is the best they could do? The pinnacle of divine imagination?
Come on.
You’re telling me that given unlimited power, unlimited wisdom, and millions upon millions of years to get it right, the best cosmic architect in the business couldn’t dream up something better than genocidal maniacs wrapped in bedsheets, or thugs in Hugo Boss marching people into ovens? That’s the masterpiece? That’s the opus?
If you buy into even the most basic scientific understanding, the stuff we can actually measure and prove, then all of this, everything, every struggle and triumph and beautiful disaster, it’s all just a temporary accident. A brief chemical fluke happening in the slow motion death rattle of our star. We got lucky with the temperature, lucky with the conditions, and for one flickering moment in the vast, indifferent darkness, the building blocks assembled themselves into something that could think and feel and ask questions it’ll never answer.
And then? Look up at the moon sometime. Really look at it. That cold, dead rock? That’s our future. That’s where this whole thing is headed. No encore. No second act. Just silence, darkness, and the same cosmic indifference that was here before we stumbled onto the stage.