Monkey Business

I look at the mirror and I see my eyes, my teeth, and my hairy extremities, ended in prehensile, nailed cylinders. I imagine history as a wave of births and deaths where I am on the top of the wave. I believe that my perspective is absolute and my reality is real.

I observe everything from my primate point of view and I explain it with my poor language, which is an extension of the growls that my throat produced centuries ago to intimidate other males and to impress the females.

I call thought the stories that I compose which roughly relate my sensations to my grunts. I tell the regularities I encountered on my stories in new stories that I call laws.

With time I forgot that they are my creation and I believe them as real, mistaking the sensations of my primate organs with my grunts. Today I believe I have the truth and I fail to understand that Truth is just another growl.

I created institutions that censor what other members of my horde can think. When their grunts remind me that my stories are just a convention, I punish and destroy my equals.