I have faith that We, as a mass of individual human units, serve a purpose in our lifetime. Whether we interpret that purpose to be incorporated within a master plan, designed before the atom was struck; or instead, on a slightly minor scale, where our actions effect the tide of humanity much like the butterfly effects the storm. Whichever you prefer is entirely decided upon and governed by our own device. The thoughtful mind (in hopeful thinking) will inevitably try to connect all of life's occurrences together, for in one manner or another, we all need a coherently explained existence. Without a history woven to place ourselves within the time-line of civilization, and beyond, what relevance does our existence prove when compared against the infinite? This despair cripples the weak, hindering even the optimistic, so that inaction overcomes action and avarice becomes the safe haven of the fatalist -they hoard in a pathetic attempt to validate their undirected lives.
Since time immemorial, humanity has repetitively made attempts to recorded their existence, their history and hopes for the future, in that they might educate future generations what they thought most valuable. The earliest human-made histories to be found, almost always depict the common themes of: hunting, fornication or historical events. These are the threads by which humans has woven the cloth of our very culture today. We hunt to appease our senses, we fuck to appease our nature, and we teach so that our offspring will learn from our success and folly. While cave paintings have fallen out of fashion when transcribing story, the act itself is as viral today than it ever has been. Sources of output exceed human capacity, which provides an unending plethora to satisfy the wandering mind. In that sense, literature has successfully managed to capture our impact upon the infinite -or so we would have it.