Dear universe

My dearly beloved universe, I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind. First of my questions, dear universe, is the following. Dear universe, why is it that I am incapable of imagining a color I have never seen before? That was my first question, dear universe, I have more questions to ask you. Dear universe, whenever I see two people of vastly different backgrounds having an argument, I don't think that the words they fling at each other bear much literal meaning, I merely see two individuals violently expressing their inability to truly understand the perspective of the other. They are speaking with their bodies, not with their minds. Is language really the optimal medium for resolving deficits in experiential wisdom? I duly believe that people speak the truth from their frame of reference, if during an individual's childhood one had repeatedly been exposed to hate-crime exclusively committed by people of a particular ethnic group, one may form the belief that all people of that group are inherently evil. Put this person in a room with someone who fits the ethnic profile, but who grew up in a peaceful, calm neighborhood, and ask them to discuss the topic of whether people of that ethnic group are indeed inherently evil. This is what I mean with deficits in experiential wisdom, neither will be able to truly grasp the depth and deep-rootedness of the belief of the other. This is where conflict arises, and therefore I think it is important to understand this better. Dear universe, I have more questions for you, if you are able to answer them. Dear universe, our bodies and minds store millions of years of latent, subconscious primal wisdom. Yet, in our modern day, we are far removed from this wisdom. How could one learn to listen to this wisdom quietly whispering from within, if one has no idea what to even begin to listen for, do you even know what's missing? Dear universe, I hope my questions inspire delightfully difficult introspection, I have more to ask, dear universe. Dear universe, before life, one does not exist; I equate this with death. After life, one does not exist; again, death. These states are essentially equal. From this, I infer that my birth came after death. What process decides what conscious body I get to inhabit; why am I me, in this time, and why am I not someone else? Will my inevitable death be the death at the beginning of a new life? Dear universe, do you understand my questions? I am not certain they are always perfectly clear. I have yet another question to ask of you, dear universe. Dear universe, since our bodies are societies of cells; with each cell living its own autonomy, together forming a being that has an awareness of its own orchestration, is it then reasonable to consider whether less compact, less obvious, yet similarly cooperative and intricately complex orchestrations are also conscious? Is an ant colony alive? Might each person in America contribute, like our autonomous cells, to a higher "American" consciousness? Dear universe, I like asking questions. I know that expertise is not found in our knowledge or wisdom, rather it is found in our ability to ask questions that mark the edges of the known. One cannot find new answers in knowledge, as a piece of knowledge itself once began its life as someone's vague, unanswered question at the edge of the known. Despite these questions being hard to answer, or even formulate to begin with, it feels nice to be able to direct them at the universe itself, so I won't have answer them myself. These are difficult questions, there are more to come, dear universe. Dear universe, the human brain comes with the concept of a body schema, from what I understand about this schema, it is partly learned, rather than being inherent to us from birth. We are capable of extending our bodily schema with devices and extensions such as swords, pianos, violins and guitars and keyboards, pencils and pens and pieces of paper; the watch on our wrist grows with us to become our organ of time, speaking true, raw emotion becomes temporarily possible when not your mouth and language are the transceiver and medium for your inner message, but the guitar takes over the role of your mouth, and the notes the role of your language. I am wondering now, dear universe, watches bring us a sense for time, instruments grant us a mouth for emotion, pens the ability to materialize our thoughts. Each of these devices got invented. There was a point in history at which there was no piano, no guitar. What languages lie dormant in our brains, calmly awaiting for their instrument to be invented? Dear universe, I don't feel like all of my questions have the same weight, their vagueness and dubiously speculative foundation makes me doubt myself, do you think my questions make sense, dear universe? Dear universe, evolution is known to recruit ever more complex naturally available resources and knowledge; light, water, chemistry, electricity, physics, etc. Assuming consciousness has arisen from the complex interplay of these resources; and can be seen as the result of this complicated recipe, what other secret, hidden complexes does this sacred alchemy hide from us? Is consciousness the last fruit evolution gets to bear? It makes me feel happy that there might be something out there that is nothing like anything we have ever seen, felt, heard, experienced or even thought about, matter is qualitatively different from conscious experience, yet before life had evolved, conscious experience likely did not exist. What sacred beauty will another million years of evolution yield? What about a billion? Dear universe, I am getting tired, even though I am not quite done, I have one more question to ask you, dear universe. Dear universe, I don't really have another question. I just wanted to say a few things to you, because I feel this needs to be said. I just want to tell you, beloved universe, I am afraid. I am afraid that we are not curious enough, not really living, not feeling, we are wasting away our emotions, we are trampling our environment, that which we hopelessly depend on. I am afraid of losing you. Life is fragile and small, I am not sick with disease, I am sick with life, in at best 80 years, my life will have taken itself. I will lose you, and you will lose me. And, dear universe, I don't want to lose you. I am afraid I am wasting time, I am afraid many of us are wasting time. We spend our days living the assumption that our friend tomorrow will be there for us, but for some people, for some of you who are reading this, the reality is that you won't be here anymore tomorrow. While it is not likely tomorrow will be my last day, nor is it likely that it will be your last day, many small not likelies add up to one big likely, this will be someone's reality tomorrow ... Tomorrow, it might be you, it might be me. And when that inevitable day comes, dear universe. Will you accept me? I hope to hear back from you, ~Laura