When I need you, Rod Stewart says, When I need you/ I just close my eyes and I’m with you. As a kid, I was hypnotised by the strange shapes that appeared in front of my eyes when I closed them. When their effect started to wear down and the colours disappeared, it was enough to rub my eyes and the chaotic, colourful spider webs came back on the virtual screen between me and the outside world. Now I rarely close my eyes, and when I do, I don’t even see funny shapes anymore. They might still be there, but I don’t focus on them anymore, so it’s like they’re not there. Now, when I close my eyes it’s often to remind myself that I am still a human being, a simple human being made of flesh and bones, and whatever I do, nothing so bad can happen to an inoffensive and pathetic human being. Whatever happens, the world will still be there, I will probably still be there, and so on. In the grand scheme of things, I am utterly insignificant, and grim as it may sound, that actually lifts the weight off my shoulders and brings peace onto me. I just need to breathe, feel my pupils touching the warm inside of my eyelids, feel the weight of my head through my neck, my core and down to my toes, and I am human, all too human again. This is a micro meditation that I carry out predominantly in times of uncertainty – provoked by either sorrow or triumph. The human circuitry, this warm flesh that covers it all like a blanket, feels so far away from the cold, metal image that we have of man-made things. It’s why it was easier for our ancestors to believe that we are God-made. Man-made objects lacked the internal warmth. Now, another movement rises. What if there is indeed a God, but we are not as sacred as we believe. What if we are just an experiment run by a lunatic who figured out how to make warm circuitry. Instead of processors, wires and cables, his invention had veins and arteries and warm eyelids that hid funny images behind for children to marvel at. Like any platform, this one too has some bugs. That’s why we see children dying of hunger and cancer, and that’s why Werther killed himself of unrequited love, and why Dmitri Karamazov killed his dad, and why I sit here contemplating the existence of a greater force in an universe which is maybe as plain and unsophisticated as we suspect it is while we wait for our turn to draw our last breath and in the meantime make up stories which would give it any meaning at all.