By Michael Tippett
Humans. We’re a funny lot.
Rushing from this moment to the next on our desperate quest for meaning.
Driven by an existential need to explain things.
We busy our lives. Label our surroundings. Sort each other into boxes.
Fetter ourselves with jobs and debt and plastic souvenirs during our brief stay.
Anything to make some sense of it all.
Faith kept us warm for a while, offering shelter from the primordial chaos.
And then along came Science.
The new kid on the block with the shiny bicycle.
A bratty, in-your-face, know-it-all, some would say.
Science is constantly explaining things. Whether we like it or not.
It’s taken the devil out of disease, the divinity from the stars. Given us monkeys for uncles and poked holes in our dreams when it decreed the moon is not, in fact, made of cheese, but rather, well… moonstuff.
Now, despite its already illustrious career, Science is determined to explain away the one thing that has baffled humankind more than anything else in existence:
Consider this: we, this very instant, cling to a giant ball of rock and metal as it hurtles through a whole lot of mostly nothingness at over 100,000 kilometres an hour. While all this fuss is going on around us, there are approximately 100,000 neurochemical reactions firing in our brains each second.
Astonishing information, courtesy of—you guessed it—Science.
If only our fact-savvy friend had left it at that.
Instead, Science probed deeper inside our skulls and now wants us to believe that certain biological responses are the cause of all our affections.
Fancy that. Love: a chemical reaction.
Combining vinegar and baking soda is a chemical reaction.
Eating beans is a chemical reaction (in my case, quite the volatile one).
Surely this springs from something much greater.
A cosmic source.
A celestial stream where muses frolic and the poets prefer to fish.
Or would you rather classify my devotion for family as some form of genetic programming? Perhaps filed under Biochemical Sequence #39758
Screw you, Science.
You can have Evolution. The stars and your cheese-free moon.
But love is unquantifiable, flourishing beyond the scrutiny of a microscope.
It belongs to the bards.
The occasional reality television show.
So, move along. Find something else to engage your formidable intellect.
You could always work on the flying car you promised me all those years ago.
I’m sure I would love it.