Conscious life in general seems possible to me unless our brain tells us a better story than reality.

A story in which we are the hero, in which we are not mortal, in which we are important, in which people care about us, in which we are intelligent and our perceptions rarely fail us, in which our life has a meaning and also in which the social game we play is determined, or at least influenced, by some just principles. We would despair if we were aware of the full extent of our meaninglessness and powerlessness.

I believe that it is the core reason why we love to believe that God/Nature is good, that the king is legitimate and that the laws are fair.

They are paid, handsomely, by it. Or otherwise brainwashed by it. And pummelled into ignorance by it, as they are told that to understand is stupid or delusional, knowledge ends at STEM, and the world only exists for efficient production of capital products.

The poets write laments about such false ages. Prophecies were written about such ages thousands of years ago.

The cycles are larger than us all.

One stable insight is that the chaos breeds possibility, and thus hope. In the meantime, however…