Narrative is the most powerful tool on the planet.

From personal anecdotes to sprawling epics of adventure, storytelling is the means by which the human race has made sense of existence. Which is important, because the human condition, when one takes the time to really break it down, is nothing short of baffling. We are evolved primates, cruising around the sun on a space-rock that hits 67,000 mile per hour, using technology we don’t even understand, and participating in societies founded by our ancestors. It’s goddamn insanity.

And I love it.

But what really gets me amped is the idea that art can help dispel the notion that the universe is nothing more than a giant abyss of nothingness and meaninglessness. It might be — I don’t know, I’m neither a philosopher nor an astrophysicist. But as I get older, I can’t kill the feeling that there are greater forces at play than I can ever possibly conceptualize or articulate.

Before words are put in my mouth, let me forewarn: I’m not declaring a newfound belief in God or revelation about the afterlife or some shit. My agnosticism is strong. What I am saying is that it’s pretty heavy to think of how much our lives can be changed, directed, and enlightened by stories. And what’s even heavier is the fact that, whether by clandestine design or sheer coincidence, there are connections amongst the storytellers, the viewers, and the content.

I have ascended The Holy Mountain and can attest that it is a strange, wonderful place.

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