The closest mystery , that mankind needs to solve is, have we become overtly lethargic.
We assuredly contend that we are thinking beings, but have we truely learned collective thought by either evolution or by accident, do we think that it is a destiny of sorts and half hazardly forget about the tribes before us, whether by their beliefs, customs or deeds, do we learn from their past mistakes, or has time and written history obscurred mankinds intention?
We are an etherial race, we don't need ghost, but welcome the good ones, we are alone, I repeat, We Are Alone, and we gravitate to seeking the pertinant answers.
I am not in inservitude, I chose to think, to learn , and to try to comprehend, I have crawled up from the flotsum, and I am curious by the stars .
What do you mean by Alone?
I could have answered as soon as you asked , but decided that the point would be more intrinsic to the question to wait to give you the answer, that being, I left you alone and wondering, not that you care all that much about the subject matter, but I believe this statement is a valid answer. you were alone without an answer.
Most times we don't find the answers to our questions, some times we do.
Although only somewhat pertinant, I thought I'd ad it.
HAMLET> interpretations of To Be Or Not To BE.
The question is: is it better to be alive or dead? Is it nobler to put up with all the nasty things that luck throws your way, or to fight against all those troubles by simply putting an end to them once and for all? Dying, sleeping—that’s all dying is—a sleep that ends all the heartache and shocks that life on earth gives us—that’s an achievement to wish for. To die, to sleep—to sleep, maybe to dream. Ah, but there’s the catch: in death’s sleep who knows what kind of dreams might come, after we’ve shaken off the flesh from our souls. That’s certainly something to worry about. That’s the consideration that makes us stretch out our sufferings so long. After all, who would put up with all life’s humiliations —the abuse from superiors, the insults of arrogant men, the pangs of unrequited love, the inefficiency of the legal system, the rudeness of people in office, and the mistreatment good people have to take from bad—when you could simply take out your knife and call it quits? Who would choose to grunt and sweat through an exhausting life, unless they were afraid of something dreadful after death, the undiscovered country from which no visitor returns, which we wonder about without getting any answers from and which makes us stick to the evils we know rather than rush off to seek the ones we don’t? Fear of death makes us all cowards, and our natural boldness becomes weak with too much thinking. Actions that should be carried out at once get misdirected, and stop being actions at all. But shh, here comes the beautiful Ophelia. Pretty lady, please remember me when you pray.