Someone Has to Be Responsible, After All
Life wasn’t easy for humans in ancient times. Thunder rolled across the sky, and nobody knew why. The sky suddenly went dark even though it was the middle of the day. The ground began to shake, mountains spat fire, diseases appeared out of nowhere, and every now and then a glowing streak crossed the night sky that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.
Google had not yet been invented.Neither had the weather app.
And even if someone had tried calling the local deity, the priest probably would have picked up.
So humans did something profoundly human: they looked for explanations. Where knowledge was missing, stories emerged. Suddenly there was someone behind the thunder, and apparently he was in a bad mood. The sun travelled across the sky because somehow it had to get from one side to the other. The sea wasn’t simply an enormous mass of salt water with occasionally unpleasant waves, but the domain of a higher power you were well advised not to annoy.
From today’s perspective, it is easy to smile at all this. We should only remember that we are sitting in the stands with several thousand years of accumulated knowledge on our side.
Someone who saw lightning three thousand years ago couldn’t look up charge separation inside storm clouds. Someone staring at the Milky Way at night had no idea they were looking at a tiny part of a galaxy containing hundreds of billions of stars. And anyone experiencing a solar eclipse may have had more immediate concerns than wondering whether the geometry of the Moon’s and Earth’s orbits was doing something particularly interesting.
The world still needed explaining somehow. So it got stories. And what stories they were.
Humanity Discovers the Sky
Almost everywhere, myths emerged about beings who lived above us, descended from the heavens, hurled lightning, brought fire, created humans, taught them things, punished them, rescued them, seduced them, or – for reasons probably understood only by gods – made their lives extraordinarily complicated.
That is not ridiculous at all. Myths were never merely primitive natural science for people without calculators. They helped humans organise experience, explain fear, tell stories about their origins, and give meaning to the world.
And naturally, people passed these stories on. That should not be underestimated.
Anyone who has ever watched a completely harmless story mutate after three days among friends can roughly imagine the possibilities offered by several centuries of oral tradition.
A strange light in the sky can become quite a lot of things. All you need is time. A great deal of time. And a good storyteller.
Then Came the Aliens
Eventually our world changed. We built aircraft, rockets and satellites. We became increasingly good at understanding what was actually happening up there. At the same time, the universe did not become smaller.
It became outrageously larger.
Suddenly the idea of extraterrestrial life was no longer a story that necessarily required a temple. It became a perfectly legitimate scientific question. If we can travel to other worlds – or at least try to – why shouldn’t another civilisation somewhere have had the same idea?
So far, so good. Then something remarkable happened. Some of our ancient gods changed careers.
The heavenly being became a space traveller. The divine chariot became an aircraft. A halo could suddenly look suspiciously like a helmet. Fire, smoke and thunder accompanying the appearance of a god began, with a little goodwill, to resemble a rocket launch. Ancient texts were read again – this time not through the eyes of a historian of religion, but rather as though some very early air-traffic controller had filed an incident report.
Modern ancient-astronaut theories popularised this way of thinking enormously. Erich von Däniken’s 1968 book Chariots of the Gods? played a major role in bringing the idea of extraterrestrial influence on ancient cultures to a mass audience.
And thus began one of the most remarkable retraining programmes in cultural history.
Once, a god descended from the heavens. Today, we know better. Today, it was an alien. Progress is unmistakable.
A Stone, a Mystery and a Great Deal of Imagination
Things become really interesting whenever there is something we don’t quite know.
There is, for example, a stone. A very old stone. Perhaps even a rather large stone.
We know roughly who lived in the area. We can determine its age. We may know what tools were available at the time. Perhaps we even have a fairly good idea of how it could have been moved.
But one small detail remains unresolved.
And now the door is open. Not just a crack. Barn door. Because suddenly the question is no longer simply:
“How did people move this stone?”
Now it becomes:
“Could they have moved it at all?”
The question mark is one of the most powerful tools in the entire ancient-astronaut business. It makes no claim. It merely asks. Could visitors from another world have helped? Is it possible that lost knowledge was involved? Why do other cultures also tell stories of beings descending from the sky? Can all of this really be coincidence?
Of course it can.
But that doesn’t sound nearly as exciting. Imagine a television documentary. Sunset. Slow camera movement across ancient masonry. In the background, a deep note reliably announces that something enormously significant is about to happen.
Then the voice:
“But how could people thousands of years ago have moved a stone of such enormous size?”
Pause. More music.
“Or did they receive help … from another world?”
At this point, someone off camera really ought to say:
“Or they had a lot of workers.”
Strangely, that person is rarely hired for these documentaries.
The Problem with Not Knowing
Behind all this lies something I actually find rather endearing. Humans dislike gaps.
We want to know why something happened. Who built something. What an image means. Why a civilisation told a particular story. We would prefer a beginning, a cause and an ending, ideally numbered neatly and supplied with instructions.
Unfortunately, the past has the irritating habit of refusing us this courtesy. People die. Languages disappear. Libraries burn. Objects survive their instruction manuals. Customs lose their meaning. Eventually somebody digs a strange figure out of the ground, looks at it for a while and asks:
“What the hell was this?”
A perfectly reasonable question.
Sometimes the honest answer is:
“We don’t know.”
And those three words have an astonishing effect. For scientists, they are a job description. For storytellers, they are an invitation. For some ancient-astronaut enthusiasts, they appear to be a vacant parking space for a spaceship.
And before we enjoy that too much, we should remember one thing: the desire to fill the gap is profoundly human.
What we fill it with, however, is open for discussion. And that is exactly what we are going to do. Because pyramids, desert lines, strange helmets, flying gods and a considerable number of very large stones are already waiting for us.
The aliens apparently had a busy schedule.
When a Mystery Suddenly Puts on a Spacesuit
There is a point at which an unanswered question becomes a story. Until then, everything is harmless. Someone finds an image. A figure with something on its head. Perhaps a helmet. Perhaps a crown. Perhaps a hairstyle for which the royal stylist can fortunately no longer be held accountable.
Then someone says:
“Doesn’t that look like a spacesuit?”
And now we have a problem. Because yes. Sometimes it actually does.
A little.
The brain loves similarities. It sees faces in clouds, animals in rocks and, apparently, NASA equipment in ancient reliefs. But once someone has planted the word “astronaut” in your mind, it becomes surprisingly difficult to see the figure as just a figure again.
Suddenly the helmet is a helmet. The tube is a breathing system. The seat is a control console. And with sufficient goodwill, some decorative ornament becomes a thrust regulator. You just have to look long enough.
Or briefly enough.
The Pyramid – Apparently an Interstellar Classic
Pyramids have one enormous advantage in this context. They look impressive. Very impressive. And they are old. That is practically enough.
Because the larger a structure is and the further removed it is from us in time, the greater the temptation seems to be for some people to strip our ancestors of every useful ability.
“They couldn’t possibly have done that.”
An astonishingly popular sentence.
Why not?
People four thousand years ago were not intellectually slower prototype versions of Homo sapiens. They had essentially the same brains we have. They could observe, calculate, plan, organise and learn from mistakes.
They did not have hydraulic excavators.
True.
They did, however, have lots of people.
Time. Experience. Craftsmanship. And probably someone who eventually said:
“If we get that stone up there, drinks are on me.”
Large construction projects have worked much the same way ever since.
Of course, questions remain. Exactly how certain processes were organised. Which types of ramps were used. How particularly heavy components were transported or positioned. Archaeology investigates these questions, changes models, rejects hypotheses and discovers new evidence.
That is science. Perhaps a little unsatisfying, because nobody dramatically shouts “Unbelievable!” But science has never promised to provide a season finale for every evening of television. The extraterrestrial version is more elegant.
Take the problem. Take the missing detail. And somewhere in between, land a spaceship.
A Small Objection from the Logistics Department
So let us assume, just for a moment, that aliens really did help build great monuments. Not because there is evidence for it. Just for fun. We are talking about a civilisation apparently capable of travelling between stars.
That alone is not entirely trivial.
Even our nearest neighbouring star lies at a distance that the human mind can barely picture sensibly. Anyone capable of crossing such distances probably knows a thing or two about technology.
And these beings arrive on Earth. What do they do? Move stones. Very large stones. Perhaps they stood somewhere in Egypt, looked at the construction site and said:
“Right, everyone. We may have mastered interstellar travel, but today we’re doing masonry.”
One would dearly love to see the expedition reports.
Day 47: Another 280 limestone blocks moved. Locals satisfied. Hyperdrive remains unused.
Perhaps they simply enjoyed it. Other people build model railways.
Nazca – So They Could Find Peru from Above
Then there are the famous Nazca Lines. Huge geoglyphs in the Peruvian desert, some geometric, others depicting animals and figures. Many are difficult to appreciate in their entirety from ground level, while from above they become spectacular.
And with that, the next spaceship was practically cleared for landing.
Why would anyone create enormous lines that cannot easily be seen in full from the ground? An interesting question.
Interesting questions sometimes lead to scientific investigation. And sometimes to extraterrestrial runways. Although I do have one minor technical concern.
If an alien spacecraft can cross interstellar distances, one would assume it could also manage navigation over Peru. But perhaps I underestimate the difficulty.
“We found the Solar System.”
“Excellent.”
“Earth too.”
“Perfect.”
“Peru, however … difficult.”
So humans drew lines in the desert. At last, landing was possible. It is a lovely story.
Unfortunately, a lovely story is not yet evidence.
The Remarkable Career of the Word “Impossible”
There is another word that appears with remarkable frequency in these documentaries:
Impossible.
“Impossible with the tools available at the time.”
“This precision was impossible.”
“Transporting something of this size was impossible.”
That word has power.
If something was impossible and yet it is standing right in front of us, something extraordinary must have happened.
There is only one small problem with “impossible.”
Sometimes it means:
“I personally don’t know how they did it.”
That is not the same thing.
I do not know how to build a violin.
Nevertheless, my first assumption is not that Stradivari received assistance from Orion.
Humans develop techniques unfamiliar to other humans. Craftspeople master skills requiring decades of experience. Some of those techniques disappear. Others leave almost no written record.
And of course there are achievements of ancient cultures that deserve genuine amazement. Perhaps we should do more of exactly that. Be amazed. Without immediately inviting someone from outer space.
The Great Art of “Could It Be?”
Now we come to one of my favourite expressions.
“Could it be …?”
Of course it could.
Almost anything could be.
Could an extraterrestrial visitor have met an Egyptian family over dinner five thousand years ago?
Yes. In the strictly logical sense, it could. Could the same visitor subsequently have frightened a donkey, lost a sandal and spent the rest of the evening feeling guilty in his spacecraft?
Also not logically impossible. We simply have no evidence whatsoever that it happened.
And that is where the problem begins. A possibility is not a probability. A probability is not evidence. And a question mark is not an archaeological method. It works wonderfully on television, though.
“Could the gods have been visitors from space?”
“Could ancient cultures have possessed technologies of extraterrestrial origin?”
“Could certain monuments have been messages to alien civilisations?”
Three questions later, you are sitting on the sofa and have almost forgotten that nobody has actually answered any of them. From a storytelling perspective, that is rather clever. I say that with genuine admiration. A good storyteller can turn an open door into an entire airport.
And Then Comes That Sentence
At some point, someone almost inevitably says:
“Science has no explanation for this to this day.”
Excellent sentence. You can practically hear the gong in the background. Unfortunately, it can mean several very different things.
It can mean: We genuinely do not know. But it can also mean:
There are several plausible explanations, but none has been conclusively proven.
Or: We understand the basic mechanism, but some details remain unresolved.
Or occasionally: Science actually has an explanation, but it does not fit particularly well into this programme.
“Researchers have been discussing several possible methods of transporting the stones for years” simply does not have the same impact as:
“To this day, science remains baffled.”
Much better place for the commercial break.
Perhaps Our Ancestors Were Simply Very Good
There is an assumption hidden beneath many of these stories that I find almost unfortunate.
That ancient people could not possibly have achieved certain things themselves. As though extraordinary achievement automatically required extraordinary assistance. But the opposite is far more interesting. Humans have been creating astonishing things for a very long time. Without computers. Without diesel engines. Without lasers. Without YouTube tutorials.
They observed, experimented, calculated, built models, improved tools, developed divisions of labour and passed knowledge from one generation to the next.
Some of their buildings are still standing today. I cannot say the same for my last three printers. Perhaps, then, we should occasionally ask less often which aliens helped our ancestors.
And ask instead:
Just how damn good were these people? That is not a less exciting question. Quite the opposite. It just usually doesn’t involve a spaceship.
Yet.
When Mythology Suddenly Becomes Technology
Myths have one enormous advantage. They do not explain themselves completely. That is wonderful for literature and almost ideal for ancient-astronaut theories.
Wherever an ancient text speaks in images, exaggerations or symbols, the great modern translation office gets to work. Fire becomes propulsion. Thunder becomes engine noise. A chariot becomes an aircraft. A god descending from the heavens needs only a helmet, and suddenly we are remarkably close to a technical report.
One could almost think ancient writers had expressed themselves rather carelessly. Perhaps they should simply have written:
“Attention: metaphor.”
That would have saved us a great deal of trouble.
The Divine Vehicle Fleet
Celestial chariots are particularly popular candidates. Understandably so. When an ancient text describes a chariot travelling through the sky, it sounds suspiciously technological to modern ears.
But there is a small question. How exactly was a person two or three thousand years ago supposed to describe something moving through the sky?
Perhaps using words they knew. A chariot, for example. That seems somewhat more likely than writing about a turbine-powered multi-purpose aircraft with vertical take-off capability.
When humans describe something unfamiliar, they use familiar concepts. We still do it today. We say a computer has a “desktop.”
There is no desk. We talk about “windows.”
Nobody can look through them. And when we move a file to the “trash,” no garbage truck arrives afterwards. Perhaps ancient people deserve the same linguistic freedom.
But of course “figurative description” sounds considerably less exciting than “technical eyewitness account.”
The Helmet That May Not Be a Helmet
Images are particularly enjoyable. There is a figure with something round around its head.
Helmet. Obviously. Maybe. Or a halo. Jewellery. A stylised headdress. Or simply an artistic convention from a culture whose symbolic language we understand only partially.
The problem begins when resemblance becomes identity. Looks like it. Therefore it is. By that method, a coconut makes a surprisingly convincing hairy planet. And with sufficient imagination, my toaster is a small temple complex. It is remarkable how quickly our brains turn shapes into meaning.
Even more remarkable is how reluctant they are to give that meaning back.
The Ancient Astronaut – Now with Control Panel
Old reliefs or images showing figures in unusual positions are especially popular.
Someone is sitting. There are shapes in front of him.
More behind him. And somewhere there is a line.
The line becomes a hose. A decoration becomes a switch.
An ornament becomes an instrument panel. And suddenly the man is no longer sitting inside a religious image.
He is in a cockpit. This works astonishingly well. Especially if somebody tells you beforehand what you are supposed to see. That is a little trick our brains perform beautifully.
If someone says:
“Look closely. There is the control stick.”
you will very often discover something that looks remarkably like a control stick.
Had the same person said:
“There you can see a ceremonial flower,”
the flower might suddenly look equally convincing. Our brains are helpful. Sometimes too helpful.
The Gods Get New ID Cards
The fascinating thing about many modern interpretations is that the gods do not disappear. They are renamed.
Divine beings become extraterrestrial intelligences. Divine powers become technology. Miracles become technical processes.
At first glance, this sounds more modern. Perhaps even more reasonable. An alien, after all, would not be supernatural. It would be biological. Technological. Material.
Basically a god with a scientific personnel file. But this does not solve the original question. It merely moves it. Where people once said:
“The gods brought knowledge to humanity,”
someone today might say:
“Aliens brought knowledge to humanity.”
It sounds more technical. But the sentence remains essentially the same. Only the resident of the heavens has transferred departments.
And Why Always Us?
Here we should take a short detour. Suppose somewhere in the universe there really is a civilisation technologically far superior to ours. Entirely possible. Suppose it has mastered interstellar travel.
More impressive. And now suppose it flies specifically to Earth. Also possible.
It encounters humans beginning to build monuments, organise agriculture and establish their first great cities.
What happens? Apparently, the visitors are delighted. They help with construction. They provide astronomical knowledge. They influence religions. They leave clues.
And then they disappear.
No phone number. No address. Not even a barely legible note under a stone saying, “We’ll be in touch.”
A pity.
Especially for a civilisation supposedly responsible for one of the most important contacts in human history. Perhaps they were shy.
The Cosmic Centre Is Surprisingly Difficult to Abolish
Behind some of these ideas lies something I find even more interesting than the theories themselves. Humans like being important. Very important.
Once, we stood at the centre of creation. Then it turned out Earth was not even at the centre of the Solar System.
Disappointing. Later we learned that the Sun was merely one star among many.
Even worse. Then came the discovery that our galaxy was hardly unique either.
By now, we know the universe is so vast that human self-importance really ought to leave the room quietly. It doesn’t.
Perhaps we are not at the centre of the universe. But maybe at least the aliens come here because of us. That would be something. Perhaps the greatest cosmic insult of all would be discovering that highly advanced extraterrestrial civilisations really do exist.
And simply are not interested in us.
“Earth?”
“Yes.”
“Visited it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Nothing special.”
Nobody wants to hear that.
Humans Love Stories with Intent
There is another reason stories about gods and aliens are so attractive. They give events intention. A natural disaster is no longer simply a natural disaster. An unusual building is not merely the result of human labour. A strange image is not simply strange.
Someone is behind it. Someone wanted something. Someone planned something. Someone left something behind.
Psychologically, that is rather comforting. Chance, on the other hand, is a terrible storyteller. It has no motives. No dramatic arc. No villain. And unfortunately, very rarely a sequel.
The Wonderful Business of Possibilities
Perhaps this also explains why practically every myth has several completely different interpretations. A god can be a force of nature. A historical ruler. A symbolic figure. A memory of a catastrophe. An astronomical allegory. An alien.
Or, if the evening goes on long enough, all of them at once.
That is the great advantage of incomplete traditions. They have room. A lot of room. And anyone with storytelling talent can furnish almost any theory inside them.
Take a few familiar motifs.
Sky. Fire. Light. Knowledge. Beings.
Connect them.
Add some music. And eventually there is a spaceship standing in the middle of the living room. Nobody quite remembers who carried it in.
But there it is.
Perhaps the Boring Answer Is Sometimes the More Beautiful One
In all of this, we occasionally overlook something. Myths do not have to be technical reports to be fascinating. Quite the opposite. Perhaps a celestial chariot tells us so much about a culture precisely because it was not a vehicle. Perhaps an image of a god does not depict a space traveller, but a human idea of what power, heaven or immortality might look like. Perhaps a story about beings bringing knowledge is far more interesting as a human memory of learning, culture and change than as a technical reinterpretation.
Because if we turn every god into an alien, something peculiar happens.
We do not explain the mystery. We merely change the scenery. Mythology becomes science fiction. And there is nothing wrong with finding that exciting. I certainly do.
We should simply remember from time to time which department is currently responsible. History. Archaeology. Religion. Literature. Or science fiction.
The boundaries sometimes blur. But somewhere there ought to be a sign. Otherwise Thor ends up in a spacesuit, Zeus gets a rocket licence and Anubis starts working for ground control.
And by then we should probably check whether we missed an exit somewhere.
When the Earth Suddenly Develops an Edge
So far, one might say: fine.
Ancient myths. Large stones. Strange images. A few celestial chariots. Plus aliens who apparently possessed a remarkable enthusiasm for monumental architecture. Still safely within the realm of human imagination.
Then comes the flat Earth. And suddenly we discover that imagination does not always look up at the sky. Sometimes it stares very determinedly at the ground.
The Theory That Keeps Needing More Furniture
The fascinating thing about Flat Earth theories is not even the idea itself. Ideas of a flat Earth have existed historically in different forms. The interesting part is trying to maintain one today.
Because we live in a world of satellites, spaceflight, global navigation, geodesy, international air routes, Earth observation and a fairly substantial number of people whose professional lives would become extremely inconvenient if our planet were secretly a disc.
And yet the theory survives. For a while. Then an observation does not fit. So an additional assumption is required. Then that assumption does not fit. So another one is added. Eventually the theory is no longer a house. It is a furniture warehouse. With an extension.
And a parking deck.
The Greatest Conspiracy in Human History
Let us take the idea seriously for a moment. The Earth is flat. Fine. Then space agencies must be lying. Astronomers too. Pilots. Airlines. Satellite operators. Meteorologists. Surveyors. Sailors. Cartographers. Governments. Universities. Research institutes.
And presumably a surprising number of people whose jobs involve GPS. That would be impressive. Not because of the flat Earth. Because of the organisation.
We might be looking at the largest and most disciplined secret operation in human history. Millions of people. Different countries. Hostile countries. Competing corporations. Scientists who argue over footnotes.
All silent. For decades. Nobody talks. Nobody makes a mistake. Nobody accidentally sends an email with the subject line:
“Flat Earth – Strictly Confidential – Please Do Not Forward.”
That alone would border on the supernatural.
Eventually the Simple Explanation Becomes Suspicious
This is where something interesting happens. A theory might begin with:
“I don’t believe the official explanation.”
That can even be healthy. Doubt matters. Science depends on it. But doubt also requires a willingness to accept something when the evidence becomes strong enough. Otherwise doubt becomes a profession. Then every refutation becomes evidence.
“You disagree with me?”
Suspicious.
“You have measurements?”
Even more suspicious.
“You can explain it?”
Now things are getting really serious. Eventually the theory becomes so well protected from reality that no counterargument can get inside. Convenient. Not particularly useful for finding out what is true.
The Problem with Things We Learned at School
Many things we learn at school are actually astonishing. The Earth rotates. It travels around the Sun. The Sun itself moves through the galaxy. We are therefore never truly standing still. Not even when we are lying on the sofa.
That is fantastic. We really do not need to invent anything extra. And yet an explanation sometimes becomes less attractive the moment understanding it requires effort.
You have to learn concepts. Understand relationships. Perhaps even calculate something. A conspiracy, on the other hand, has one enormous advantage: It explains everything immediately.
Why doesn’t the observation fit? Cover-up.
Why do experts disagree? They are part of it.
Why is there evidence? Fabricated.
Why is there no evidence for your own theory? It was removed.
An impressively closed system. Rather like an umbrella that proves, even in sunshine, that it must be raining somewhere.
A Small Experiment with a Missing Car Key
Perhaps we should apply the same method to everyday life. Last night, my car key was on the table. This morning, it is in the kitchen. I do not remember putting it there.
What do we know? The key changed location.
What do we not know? How.
Can we rule out the involvement of an alien intelligence? No.
Can we prove that no extraterrestrial being entered my kitchen during the night? Also no.
Why is there no camera footage? Aha.
Now things are getting interesting. Perhaps the camera was manipulated.
By whom? That remains unclear. Science is baffled. Or perhaps I simply put the key there myself. Also possible.
Dramaturgically, however, a complete disaster.
We Underestimate the Power of a Good Story
And now we are back where we started. Humans tell stories. We have been doing it for a very long time. Stories about gods. Stars. Monsters. ,Kingdoms. Aliens. Secret powers.
And occasionally about neighbours who have apparently been parking incorrectly for three years. A good story possesses something a sober explanation does not always have. Suspense. Intent. Mystery. A culprit. Perhaps even a soundtrack.
Reality, by comparison, can be disappointingly unspectacular.
A stone was moved by humans. A line was drawn by humans. A myth changed over centuries. A light in the sky was a planet. The key was in the kitchen.
You cannot build much of an evening documentary out of that.
And What If They Really Land Tomorrow?
But now let us be fair. Suppose we wake up tomorrow morning. There is a spaceship standing in a field. Not a point of light. Not a blurry photograph. Not eight seconds of video filmed from inside a car.
A proper spaceship. Door opens. Alien steps out.
Good morning.
Some people would be having an exceptionally pleasant day. Ancient-astronaut enthusiasts would probably smile very quietly. Mocked for decades. And now the thing is standing there. We would have to be fair.
“All right.”
“You get that one.”
Maybe even two points. Then someone would probably ask:
“How do we know they’re really aliens?”
Reasonable enough.
Then somebody else:
“It’s staged.”
Of course.
“By whom?”
“The government.”
Which government?
“All of them.”
And no more than five minutes after first contact, we would be right back where we started. The aliens would probably climb very slowly back into their ship. Door closed. Take-off. Expedition report:
Planet interesting. Inhabitants difficult.
Perhaps They Will Laugh at Us in a Thousand Years
Before we become too comfortable, we should allow one final thought. Perhaps people in the year 3026 will sit reading our texts. Perhaps they will look at our convictions. Our theories. Things we are absolutely certain about today.And perhaps a student will ask:
“They really believed that?”
And someone will reply:
“Yes.”
“They simply didn’t know any better yet.”
That is healthy. Not every certainty we hold today will turn out to be wrong. But some might. Science does not claim to be final. It works precisely because findings can be tested, changed and improved. That is less spectacular than a temple containing a hidden stargate.
But over the long term, somewhat more reliable.
You Are Allowed to Believe
And so I do not want to take anyone’s fun away at the end. If you believe extraterrestrial visitors came here, you are free to believe it. If you want to search for Atlantis, go searching.If you see an astronaut in an ancient image, take another look.
If you stare at the night sky convinced that we cannot possibly be alone, you are in very good company with that question.
You are allowed to wonder. You are allowed to doubt. You are allowed to speculate. You are allowed to love stories.You are even allowed to have a theory that makes someone else raise an eyebrow and quietly leave the room.
That is all fine.
There should simply be a little space between two sentences.
Between:
“I believe this.”
and:
“I know this.”
A surprising amount fits into that space. Questions. Evidence. Doubt. Curiosity. Sometimes even reason.
And in Case Anyone from Alpha Centauri Is Reading
All right. Perhaps they really were here. Perhaps they built pyramids. Perhaps they left lines in deserts. Perhaps some gods really did wear spacesuits. Perhaps my car key wasn’t my fault after all. I do not want to rule anything out.
One should remain open-minded.
But if any extraterrestrial civilisation happens to be reading this, I have one small request.
Next time you visit: No mysterious stone. No puzzling helmet. No line in the sand. No message that takes four thousand years and three seasons of a documentary series to understand. Just ring the doorbell.
Say hello. Bring something. A photograph. A star map. An instruction manual.
Anything.
And while you are here, please explain why you apparently required millions of years of technological development to master interstellar travel, only to arrive on Earth and spend most of your time helping us stack stones.
I genuinely want to know. Until then, we still have the myths. The mysteries. The theories. The question marks. And that wonderfully human habit of staring at a gap in our knowledge until eventually a spaceship fits inside.
Perhaps we should not judge it too harshly. After all, humans have done considerably worse things. And told considerably more boring stories.
So let us keep looking up. Perhaps there really is someone out there. And perhaps they are looking back. Hopefully they have a sense of humour.
They are going to need it.
The featured image was created with ChatGPT, based on an original visual concept and prompt by Armin Kraft.
ChatGPT also assisted in translating the German original into English, helping to preserve its distinctive tone, humour and linguistic character. The ideas, concept, original text and authorship are entirely those of Armin Kraft.
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