Between the true natures of things and the meanings that we impart to them, there is a discrepancy. And that discrepancy can be painful to contemplate, to say the least.
Perhaps it would be better, though, to see it as an exciting tension; a savorable dissonance. The juxtaposition of human ideas, warm and small, onto reality — that endless cold soup of matter and energy — is sort of a fascinating tragicomic conceit in itself. Humanity is a bit of a Don Quixote, crusading insanely through a benighted La Mancha it cannot see. And while the human race may never resolve the question of whether our sympathies lie with Señor Quixote or with his embarrassed neighbors, perhaps there is some lasting comfort to be found in the fact that the story of his delusion is a good one — a thing of beauty.
The interval between human affairs and the truth is not a resonant, reassuring one like a perfect fifth — it’s more like a seventh; it beats. But maybe in those beats is a beguiling rhythm.
[This is a sequel to this one from 4 years ago, along similar lines]