Hunting the Universe

I knew it, he was just cleaning his weapons to go hunting on Sunday. His lucky charm is a rabbit’s foot, which he claims to have hunted, which my mother prepared, and with which, he often repeats, we delighted ourselves, especially me. I was much younger then.

I don’t really think he sees it as a lucky charm, but rather as a representation of the success of his hunts, the pride of having killed an rabbit. I would hate to be one, to have dozens of other mammals, every day, twenty-four hours without rest, truly starving or just pretending, searching for the flesh of my body. The rabbits take the sun’s rays as bait, the taste of a warmed herb as their trap.

And what is the rabbit to do? Stay in its windowless room, never step into the sunlight, fast until it perishes? If life is impossible, why should it exist only to be served as dinner? It’s either us or the foxes, humans think, dictating their place at the top of the food chain, pointing their barrels at the fox, forcing it to drop the rabbit from its mouth.

Man tamed fire for the first time four hundred thousand years ago or more. Yet despite enjoying the benefits of everything he controls, man also uses each of these things for evil, nothing escapes his perversion. Everything can be turned into an instrument of death, and everything that lives can be killed and mourned.

Throughout the history of civilization, human survival has been based on the struggle against nature, on protecting oneself from a cruel fate. By stripping nature of all its powers, including time itself, humanity could become the dictator of the entire Universe.

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