Human Nature: Served Four Ways
Four short pieces on insight, authority, imitation and the utter strangeness of Human Nature.
Breaking News: Local Human Accidentally Mistaken for Deity After Saying Something Smart
A small reminder not to confuse good insight with authority.
It started the way a lot of misunderstandings do: with one sentence.
Not a dramatic sign. Just a decent thought from an ordinary person.
Witnesses reported it was “insightful”
Some even said “profound”
One person described it as “exactly what I needed to hear”
That’s when the trouble began.
Within hours, the speaker, hereafter referred to as The Human, was discreetly promoted to a position they never applied for:
Unofficial Source of Truth
Phase One: Admiration
At first, it was harmless.
People nodded.
They took notes.
They said things like “Wow, I’ve never thought about it like that before.”
The Human, still under the impression they were just talking, continued.
Occasionally they said something meaningful.
Occasionally they didn’t.
Once, they forgot what they were saying mid-sentence and just sort of trailed off.
This should have been the first clue.
Phase Two: Elevation
But instead of noticing the obvious signs of humanity, something fascinating occurred.
A subtle shift.
People started treating The Human’s words like anchors.
As authority instead of opinion.
And that was the shift, once it became authority, everything downstream changed.
And suddenly The Human was expected to be consistent, correct, spiritually perfect all the time and incapable of ever being wrong in a way that would inconvenience anyone.
Which was impressive, considering they still occasionally searched for their eyeglasses while wearing them.
Phase Three: Interpretation
Soon, it wasn’t even about what The Human said.
It was about what people believed The Human meant.
Conversations quickly became:
“I think what they were really saying was....”
“If you understand them correctly....”
“That aligns with what they said that one time, so....”
At this point, The Human could have said:
“I’m honestly still figuring this out.”
and it would have been translated into:
“Ah yes, a deeper layer of hidden certainty.”
Phase Four: The Problem
Here’s where things get tricky.
Because eventually.... inevitably, The Human says something....
not brilliant.
Not profound.
Just basic.
And suddenly, everyone has a decision to make:
1) Acknowledge that The Human is, in fact, human
2) Preserve the illusion that they were never meant to be questioned
Historically, option 2 has a strong following.
And to be fair, I’ve done this too.
Not with a pedestal, maybe, but with that sense of relief that someone else seemed more certain than I felt.
A Clarification
So let’s just say it clearly, before things get out of hand:
The Human is not God.
They do not possess:
perfect knowledge
flawless interpretation
or a direct, uninterrupted download of truth at all times
What they have is much less dramatic and much more ordinary.
a mind, a voice and the occasional good insight
Which is also true of everyone else.
The Office of Sacred Certainty
Official Notice to All Who Prefer to Not Think for Themselves
We are pleased to inform you that the burden of discernment has been permanently lifted from your shoulders.
Effective immediately, all matters of truth, interpretation and moral navigation will be handled by approved authorities with excellent posture and a demonstrated ability to sound confident in low lighting.
Personal revelation is still permitted, of course, provided it arrives pre aligned with established conclusions.
Independent thought may continue in a limited capacity, so long as it remains:
quiet
non disruptive
and easily correctable
Any conclusions reached outside of approved channels will be reviewed and, if necessary, reclassified as confusion, pride or a temporary lack of alignment.
Please rest assured, you are in very capable hands.
Our leadership has been carefully selected based on their proven ability to speak with certainty, withstand contradiction, remain entirely untroubled by inconvenient evidence and, where necessary, redefine reality midsentence without blinking.
In the unlikely event that concerns arise, we encourage you to:
pray more sincerely
trust more deeply
and examine yourself more thoroughly
Thank you for continued cooperation in maintaining a stable and predictable reality.
The heavens are still available, though most people seem content with the summary.
North, By Popular Demand: A community effort
There was once a woman named Aurora who had a remarkable gift.
She could look at the stars and, most of the time, tell you which way was north.
Not always and not perfectly.
But often enough to impress people who had apparently never bothered to tilt their heads upward in their entire lives.
At first, they simply asked for directions.
“Aurora, which way should we go?”
She would sigh theatrically, press a hand to her chest like a Victorian lady about to faint from the burden of her absolute brilliance, and say, “Oh, goodness, I’m hardly qualified.... but if I must guess, it’s probably that way. I mean, I do stare at the sky more than is socially acceptable. It’s basically my only personality trait.”
They laughed. They nodded. They followed.
This should have been the end of it.
But people are nothing if not next level elite in outsourcing their own brains.
Before long, they stopped checking the sky entirely. Why bother squinting up at distant balls of gas when they had Aurora?
Someone even suggested they build her a pedestal. “So everyone can see you better!” they said, eyes shining with the pure joy of never having to think again.
Aurora placed a modest hand over her heart, the same one that was secretly doing cartwheels. “A pedestal? For me? Oh no, no, no, I’m just a simple woman who occasionally looks up. I’m not some kind of.... human GPS. That would be ridiculous.”
She paused, then added with a perfectly timed self deprecating laugh, “Though I do have an unusually good sense of direction for someone who once got lost in her own walk in closet. But, sure, if it helps the group....”
They built the pedestal anyway. A very tasteful one. With excellent lighting so her “natural glow” could be properly appreciated.
Now permanently elevated, Aurora arranged her face into an expression of performative humility so flawless it deserved its own TED Talk.
Every time they asked for guidance, she’d tilt her head sweetly, furrow her brow in faux concern and say things like:
“Oh, darlings, I’m really not the expert here.... I just happen to notice patterns most people miss because they’re too busy doomscrolling. But if my silly little stargazing hobby can be of some use....”
When she hesitated, they called it depth.
When she guessed, they called it wisdom.
When she contradicted herself the week before, they called it “nuanced higher understanding.”
And when she was right, which happened just often enough to keep the cult going, they called it “evidence” and threw her a small parade.
She pretended to hate it.
Posted three humblebrag stories about it on Instagram.
Years passed.
The people grew strangely confident in their direction, though none of them could explain why they were marching toward that particular horizon.
They just knew Aurora had pointed there, and Aurora was, well, Aurora.
Then came the night the clouds rolled in, thick, stubborn and completely uninterested in cooperating with her little performance.
Aurora squinted. Shifted. Did the whole dramatic “I’m concentrating so harrrd” face that usually earned applause.
Nothing.
Just gray soup.
The crowd below grew restless.
“Well?” someone called up. “Which way, Aurora?”
She swallowed, then flashed her best validation fishing smile, equal parts vulnerable and secretly thrilled they still needed her this badly.
“Oh sweetie, I wish I could be more helpful right now. The stars are being so uncooperative tonight. I feel just awful about it. I mean, here I am, supposed to be your little guiding light, and the universe is making me look like an amateur. It’s honestly so humbling.”
There was a pause.
Then someone voiced what everyone was clearly thinking:
“Just do what you always do.”
Aurora let out a tiny, perfectly rehearsed sigh of reluctant duty.
“If you insist.... Even though I’m clearly out of my depth here and probably shouldn’t be trusted when I can’t even see my own hand in front of my face....”
She pointed anyway.
Certainly not because she knew.
And not because she could see.
But simply because they needed her to.
And they followed.
Of course they did.
It never occurred to them that the sky was still right there above them, unchanged, unmoved, entirely available if anyone could be bothered to look.
But why consult the actual heavens when you could have a woman on a very well lit pedestal pretending she doesn’t love every second of being irreplaceable?
Moral, delivered with maximum side-eye:
It’s strange how quickly people will trade the whole night sky for one confident guess, especially when she bats her lashes and says “I’m really not that special” while clearly believing the opposite.
The Man Who Carried Fire
There was once a man who came down from the mountain carrying fire.
Not a metaphorical fire or a philosophical fire.
Actual flame, bright and alive, held carefully in a small vessel.
The people gathered around.
They had lived a long time in the dark, and though they had learned to navigate it, they had never stopped longing for light.
“Where did you get that?” they asked.
“From above,” he said.
They leaned closer.
The fire was real. They could feel its warmth. It illuminated things they had never seen clearly before, shadows pulled back, shapes defined, edges revealed.
And for a while, everything was as it should be.
When the man spoke about the fire, they listened carefully.
When he showed them how to tend it, they followed closely.
When he warned them not to smother it or distort it, they took him seriously.
Because the fire mattered.
And he had brought it.
But people aren't always content with fire alone.
They began to watch the man.
How he walked.
How he spoke.
What he preferred.
What he avoided.
What he ate.
What he laughed at.
At first, it was just curiosity.
Then it became imitation.
One afternoon, while tending a small garden near his home, the man poured something into the soil.
A few people saw.
“What was that?” they whispered.
“Does it matter?” one asked.
“He’s the one who brought the fire!” another exclaimed.
The next morning, several gardens smelled.... different.
By the end of the week, it had become a regular practice.
By the end of the month, it had become a recommendation.
By the end of the year, someone had written it down.
Meanwhile, the fire was still burning.
But fewer people were tending it.
Fewer people were watching it.
Fewer people were learning how it worked or what was needed to keep burning.
They had become.... very busy.
There were now many things to remember.
The man noticed.
One evening, he gathered them again.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
They looked confused.
“We are following you,” they said.
He held up the fire.
“I did not bring you myself,” he said. “I brought you this.”
They nodded politely.
Of course. The fire.
Very important.
They would get back to it.
Right after they finished discussing soil ratios.
Time passed.
The fire grew smaller.
Not gone ...
Never entirely gone.
But dimmer.
Easier to ignore.
And still, they were very careful about the garden.
Moral
It's a strange thing how easily people will guard the habits of the messenger while neglecting the message he was sent to deliver.
And stranger still how often they do it in his name.
A Radical Proposal
What if, instead of building altars out of sentences, we did something wild?
What if we listened, considered, tested, wrestled and took responsibility for our own conclusions?
What if a meaningful statement wasn’t an invitation to surrender our thinking, but to sharpen it?
If something resonates, don’t follow the voice.
Follow the insight to its source.
Truth doesn’t belong to the person who says it first.
It just.… passes through sometimes, and we act like it moved in permanently.
And mistaking a voice for the source of truth has never ended well.
Not for the people listening.
And not for the human on the pedestal.
Especially not for the human on the pedestal.
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