Not Gods, Not Demons — Just Us

Witty Banter 

Today's topic is a bit hypocritical for me as I am a spiritual atheist myself. We would be discussing some important stories. Not the kind with a moral, but the kind you revisit late at night, the ones where you question the morality of the good. It starts somewhere familiar:

with a woman, a tree, a fruit, a rule.

And somewhere else with a man, a fire, a theft, a punishment.

You know the stories, at least vaguely. Eve and the serpent. Prometheus and the gods. Two ancient rebellions. Two “crimes” against higher beings. Two moments where the divine was no longer untouchable because the human dared to ask, why not?

So, today's blog is about that. About the unsettling power of wanting to know. And how maybe, just maybe, what we call humanity is less about what we are, and more about what we stole. So sit with me. Pull your chair closer to the fire you weren’t meant to hold. Let’s talk about gods, demons, and the beautiful disaster that is us.

We begin with a flaw- The Fracture at the Root of our Creation

The problem with being made by gods is that gods are insecure. You’d think omnipotence would come with peace of mind. But mythology doesn’t show us wise architects. It shows us narcissists with thunderbolts. Jealous. Possessive. Obsessed with loyalty. The kind of beings who say “Worship me or burn.” And maybe that's where the first fracture begins: Humans were made by beings that didn’t want equals only echoes. So when humans started thinking, started questioning, started walking upright and staring at stars instead of dirt something in the heavens twitched. The Gods' narcissism overlooked the core feature of humans, curiosity and creativity. We weren’t meant to rise. We were meant to bow. But we didn't.

The Fruit That Made Us Dangerous — And the Woman Who Chose to Know

Eve eats the fruit. Not because she’s foolish. Not because she’s evil. But because she wants to understand. And that's terrifying. Not just to a god who gives commands — but to any system that relies on silence. Because knowledge isn’t passive. It spreads. It burns. It whispers, what else don’t they want us to know?Eve doesn’t fall, she rises. She sees. She knows. She becomes. And the price of that awakening is exile. Not just from Eden, but from comfort. From certainty. From the easy illusion that being obedient is the same as being good. That’s when we became human not when we were formed, but when we disobeyed. When we said, I’d rather suffer with understanding than live in blind peace. That was our first sin. Or, depending on how you look at it, our first freedom.

The Fire That Should Have Stayed in Heaven — But Was Carried Down Anyway

Then there was Prometheus. Prometheus didn’t just give us fire, he gave us the right to want more. In myth, he looked at humanity cold, powerless, unfinished and chose defiance. He stole fire from the gods and placed it in our hands. Not just warmth or light, but transformation: the ability to create, destroy, question, dream. To rebel. And for that, he was punished. Chained to a rock, his liver devoured daily, his suffering eternal, not to silence him, but to make an example of him. Because the gods weren’t afraid of Prometheus. They were afraid of us, once we held fire. Because fire is dangerous. It doesn’t just warm, it burns. It spreads. It changes everything. Prometheus didn’t give us comfort. He gave us restlessness. The inability to be content. The unbearable need to become. That’s what we inherited: not peace, but potential. And it shows in every invention, every rebellion, every late-night question we can’t shake. We burn because he burned first. And maybe that’s what being human really is: Not to be divine, not to be safe but to carry fire, and never put it down.

Gods or Demons- we inherited both

What are we, really? Not gods, not demons, but something forged in the tension between them. A fusion of the gods’ pride and the demons’ hunger. A creature born of contradiction, both reverent and ravenous. The gods gave us their likeness or so they said. “We made you in our image,” they declared, but perhaps what they really gave us was their flaw. Not divinity, but its shadow: pride. The kind that doubts. The kind that looks upward and doesn’t see the sky as a ceiling but as a challenge. A mirror. The gods created us to reflect them, but they forgot how deeply they loathe their own reflection. Because what happens when the mirror looks back? When the created begins to create? When the worshipper begins to question? They gave us ambition, then trembled when it took root. They built us with hunger for beauty, for purpose, for understanding and then called us ungrateful for asking, is this all there is? And then there were the demons. Those eternal outcasts. They didn’t sculpt us. They didn’t claim to love us. But they saw something in us that even the gods couldn’t admit. Hunger. Not just for food, or touch, or power but for more. Always more.

To love too hard.
To feel too much.
To want what should’ve been enough and still ache beyond it.
To stand in the middle of everything we’ve built and still whisper, this can’t be it.
There must be more.

Maybe the demons weren’t evil. Maybe they were just honest. They didn’t curse us, they understood us.
They gave names to what the gods would not speak aloud. They didn’t offer damnation. They offered permission. Permission to feel without shame. To desire without apology. To experience instead of worship. They didn’t tempt us to betray. They invited us to feel. To crave joy and pain and music and chaos and every wild, impossible thing in between. They reminded us that life wasn’t meant to be endured it was meant to be devoured. The gods gave us form. The demons gave us fire. The gods gave us nobility. The demons gave us nerve. And somewhere in that paradox we began. Not as saints. Not as sinners. But as a species haunted by both heaven and hunger. We are the sum of two opposing forces: one that demands we rise above, and one that begs us to sink in and feel it all. We are beings stitched together by contradiction. We kneel, then rage. We pray, then bite. We sing to the stars with blood on our hands. We try impossibly to be good, while carrying in our chest the raw materials of rebellion, romance, and ruin. And maybe that’s what makes us human. Not purity. Not power. But this trembling in-between. We are the middle note between the choir and the scream. And perhaps it was never a question of choosing between god and demon. Perhaps the truth is this:

We are what happened when both looked away at the same time and we made ourselves.

The Curse of Curiosity and the aftermath of asking "Why?"

Knowledge doesn’t give you peace. It gives you questions. And the more you know, the more you realise how little was ever real. How much of life was built on scaffolding you never saw on rules no one remembers writing. On systems that only work if you don’t ask where they came from. What hurts the most about growing up isn’t just pain. It’s clarity. Realising the grown-ups were improvising. That the laws were written in pencil. That Eden may never have been real and if it was, it was more cage than sanctuary. Because once you learn the truth, you can’t unlearn it. Once you taste the fruit, you can’t pretend you’re not awake. That’s the price of asking why. You lose the comfort of ignorance. But maybe that’s okay. The real tragedy isn’t exile but stagnation. Eden was a golden prison. The snake wasn’t the villain. The sin was survival without understanding. And maybe, just maybe, divinity isn’t in being perfect.

We are the aftermath- Not the creation, but the consequence

We are not Gods. We bleed too easily. We break too often. We love things that destroy us. And destroy things we love. We are not demons. We carry guilt. We seek meaning. We apologise for our chaos. We hope, even when it hurts. We are the storm that comes after creation. We are the fire that didn’t stay stolen , we passed it on, hand to hand, breath to breath, burning everything and calling it progress. And the world we’ve made? It’s messy. Loud. Terrifying. But it’s ours. We built it. Out of hunger. Out of questions. Out of spite. Out of love.

If you're still here- You have tasted Fire too

Then maybe you, too, have wondered why the gods made us curious and then punished us for it. Maybe you’ve felt the echo of that fruit in your own choices, the ones that cost you peace but gave you perspective. Maybe you've lit fires you couldn’t control just because the dark felt worse. Maybe you’ve realised that being human isn’t about perfection. It’s about contradiction. About being pulled in opposite directions and walking anyway. About not knowing and still asking. To live without certainty, to ask despite the absence of answers, to hold contradiction without letting it break you.

And in that quiet defiance, we carve meaning where none was given.