Humans arrived very late to the party. That is one fact we conveniently forget. The universe had already been busy for billions and billions of years before we showed up—stars exploding and being reborn, galaxies dancing away from each other, planets forming, oceans settling, microbes learning to survive, trees quietly inventing oxygen, insects mastering flight, and animals perfecting instinct. Life was already doing quite well without us. And then, finally, humans appeared—barely a blink ago in cosmic time.
Yet somehow, we behave as if the entire creation waited patiently just for our arrival.
There is a strange arrogance in the human mind. We look at the sun and call it “our” sun, the earth “our” planet, forests “our” resources, rivers “our” water, animals “our” food, and even time “our” future. We speak as though everything exists to serve us, forgetting that none of it needed us to exist in the first place. The universe did not pause and say, “Let me prepare a stage for humans.” It simply continued its natural process, and we happened to emerge as one small outcome of it.
What makes this even more ironic is that most of creation operates perfectly without human interference. Seasons change without our permission. The moon does not seek our approval before controlling tides. Ants build complex societies, birds migrate across continents, trees communicate underground, and oceans regulate climate—all without human intelligence. Yet humans, the latecomers, assume the role of managers, owners, and ultimate decision-makers.
Perhaps this self-centered thinking comes from consciousness. We are aware of ourselves, and awareness can easily slip into self-importance. We tell stories where humans are the heroes, nature is the background, and the universe is a supporting character. Religions, philosophies, and even modern science are often interpreted through a human lens: What does this mean for us? How does this benefit us? Where do we fit in?
But a more honest view would humble us. We are not the purpose of creation; we are participants in it. Temporary ones at that. If humans vanished tomorrow, the earth would not collapse in grief. It would heal. Forests would return, oceans would recover, and life would quietly continue its ancient journey. That thought is uncomfortable, but also grounding.
Recognizing this doesn’t make humans insignificant—it makes us responsible. Being late arrivals means we inherited a masterpiece already in progress. The tragedy is not that we exist, but that we behave like owners instead of guests. Maybe true intelligence is not dominating creation, but learning to coexist with it.
After all, creation did not happen for us. We happened within it. And remembering that might be the first step toward wisdom.
Srinivas kesiraju
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