What is it that makes human dreams?
Why is it that we create stories of heroes and heroines whose adventures span galaxies? Why is it that our dreams are so big, so fantastic, when the true “known universe” barely extends beyond the heliosphere?
I think about my childhood—books by men like Asimov, Bradbury, Niven and books by women like McCaffrey.
They planted all these wild ideas of possible futures in my head, indirectly shaping the evolution of my imagination. As a child, everything that I yearned for seemed to be things that only existed beyond the stars.
Even now, at night, I’m always looking to the sky for something I cannot name.
There’s no denying that there’s beauty in the world and tiny miracles in the way it breathes and carries us in it.
Still, we’ve demystified so much of it. Long gone are the Moby Dicks, sea monsters, and Shambhalas of the world. Almost every supernatural myth that we re-tell or reinvent to thrill ourselves with is borrowed from something ancient.
You tell me, what will be the mythology of the future?