Special Archive of the Human Diaspora

By Alexandra Durham

“Sublimity”

For much of my life, I’ve considered humanity’s relationship with the environment to be fundamentally one of coercion. We, as a species, force the environments which we inhabit to yield to our needs, often without reflection on whether those needs are rational, sustainable, or even beneficial.

From the early manipulation of fire to the present-day restructuring of entire ecosystems, humanity’s instinct has been to impose its will on the natural world. And yet, no matter how much we force nature to comply, the problems of human behavior persist. The inevitable violence, selfishness, and desire for control continue to emerge. It seems that even in a perfect world, we cannot avoid our most self-destructive tendencies.

What becomes clear is that no amount of external perfection can solve the flaws embedded within the human psyche. The more we mold our environment into something closer to our ideal, the more glaring our own imperfections become by comparison. A well-tended garden cannot prevent its gardener from succumbing to rage or fear. A spotless city built on harmony with nature cannot eliminate the darker desires of its people. This paradox has always fascinated me. No matter how much we alter the external, the internal remains stubbornly ungovernable.

Humanity’s history is littered with attempts to create perfection. We've sought it through technology, through social order, through the manipulation of nature. But perfection, in the way we’ve pursued it, has always been illusory. We've come to expect that by manipulating the environment, we could achieve utopia—a place without suffering, without conflict. And when that proves inadequate, as it always does, we are forced to face the reality that there is nothing left to blame but ourselves.

The next step, then, is obvious: we stop trying to perfect the world around us and instead begin to perfect ourselves.

In the early days of humanity’s technological rise, such an idea would have been heresy. The concept of modifying the self—our very nature—was once abhorrent. Yet as we advanced, genetic modification became not only possible but practical. Now we can eliminate those traits we deem undesirable.

In theory, by removing aggressive tendencies, reactive behaviors, or any genetic disposition that predisposes one to selfishness, violence, or cruelty, we could craft a more harmonious society. The question then arises: Is this not the logical end of our pursuit for perfection? After millenia of bending nature to our will, should we not bend ourselves in the same manner?

I ruminated on these concepts upon stumbling upon a planet which embodied this dilemma in an eerily potent manner.

The planet was remote, orbiting a dim star on the outskirts of the human occupied galaxy, far removed from the crowded, conflict-ridden worlds I had grown accustomed to studying. Its existence was unremarkable on the surface—a forgotten dot on the edges of a scattered diaspora—but the society that inhabited it had achieved something unique.

From orbit, I could see sprawling green cities nestled seamlessly into the landscape, their skyscrapers almost organic in design, towering yet graceful. These were not the cold, metallic structures typical of advanced civilizations. They seemed to grow from the ground itself, covered in a symbiotic network of greenery and reflective surfaces that shimmered in the pale sunlight. Buildings intertwined like the roots of a colossal tree, connected by sleek bridges and walkways, forming a vast network of life and architecture. Everything was meticulously clean, from the sparkling white pathways to the gold-flecked facades of the public halls.

The color palette was striking—green, white, and gold dominated the cityscapes. Every surface was spotless, every corner of the city gleamed under the gentle sunlight. Massive towers, their shapes flowing in gentle curves like living organisms, reached high into the air, and from their peaks, enormous strands of vegetation cascaded down, adding to the sense that this city was a living, breathing entity in itself. The air, as I descended, was crisp and fragrant, filled with the faint scent of flowering trees and freshly cut grass. It was surreal, as though I had stepped into a world crafted by an artist intent on depicting serenity.

The people reflected their environment. Beautiful, almost unnervingly so, with clear skin, radiant health, and a refined aura that seemed to transcend anything I had encountered before. They were dressed in flowing garments of white and gold, elegant yet simple, and carried themselves with a grace that bordered on unnatural. As I walked among them, their politeness was absolute, their calm unshakeable. Everything about this world felt curated, as though I were in the presence of something beyond human achievement.

What intrigued me most, however, was the absence of anything familiar to the human condition. I deployed my microdrone fleet and began surveillance on one of the larger cities. I was struck to find that there was no litter, no poverty, no sign of conflict or struggle. As I observed them interacting, there were no arguments, no raised voices, not even the smallest hints of tension. It was a peacefulness that felt absolute, and in that absoluteness, unnerving.

As I marveled at the seamless integration of humanity and nature, a transmission came through. “Welcome traveler.” The message began. “My name is Ortha Yin. I am among our world’s ambassadors. I see your vessel floats high above, unsure of whether its presence is permitted. Let it be communicated that all are welcome to roam and live under our sun. Please, allow me to receive you personally.” The transmission concluded and coordinates were sent to my vessel.

The woman’s tone registered as slightly strange to me. However, I was very much interested to learn more about the nature of this world. As I traveled to meet her, I looked down upon the sheer perfection of the artificially crafted city below, wondering if perhaps, on this distant world, they had found a solution to the tenanting issue of human corruption.

I followed the coordinates sent by the woman, descending towards the planet’s calm, serene surface. The landscape that greeted me upon arrival was nothing short of breathtaking—a lush expanse of greenery stretching out in all directions, framed by hills that seemed to roll endlessly towards the horizon. The mansion that awaited me at the destination was a study in contrasts: classical in design, almost ancient, yet with an unmistakable undercurrent of sophisticated technology woven into its very being. It stood proudly atop a hill, surrounded by flowering gardens, with columns of smooth stone rising high into the air. Sunlight glinted off golden accents embedded into the architecture, which, at first glance, might have seemed decorative but clearly held a deeper, functional purpose. There was a strange and subtle beauty to it all, as though every detail had been meticulously calculated.

Upon landing the woman who I had communicated with came out to greet me at the entrance, her presence as refined and polished as the environment around her. She was dressed in the same flowing white and gold attire I had seen on the citizens before, her dark hair pinned back in an elaborate style that evoked a sense of both grace and command. Her expression was warm, but it carried a practiced precision, like the movements of a conductor orchestrating a grand symphony.

“Welcome, traveler.” She said, her voice soft yet resonant, as if the words themselves had been carefully measured before being released. “You are free to roam here, as you wish. But I sense you have not come merely to wander.”

I stepped forward, taking in the grandeur of the estate before turning my focus back to her. “I came to learn.” I replied. “I am a student of humanity’s many forms and fates. Your world is… unique. I wished to understand how your people live in such harmony with both themselves and their environment.”

Her smile widened slightly, an expression of pride, though there was something in her eyes—a distance, perhaps, or a rehearsed quality—that gave me pause. “You seek knowledge.” She said, “And we have much to share. Our world has known peace for over thirteen hundred years. We have eradicated violence, and not a single act of aggression has tarnished our society for centuries.”

I studied her closely, intrigued by her choice of words. "Eradicated? Such absoluteness is… rare."

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Ortha gestured for me to follow her inside. As we stepped through the grand entrance into the mansion’s atrium, I couldn’t help but notice how the elegance of the architecture extended to its interior. The floors were polished to a reflective sheen, and the air was filled with the faint scent of incense. The walls were lined with art, depictions of serene landscapes, meticulous calligraphy, and abstract forms that seemed to pulse with quiet energy.

“Our harmony did not happen by accident.” She began as we walked. “We achieved it through deep understanding—of ourselves, of our biology, and of the nature of conflict. It took centuries of research, but we came to realize that true peace could only be found by addressing the root cause of human discord: our genetic makeup.”

I paused, letting her words sink in. “Genetic makeup? Have you altered yourselves?”

“Not altered.” She corrected, her tone even and calm, as though discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Corrected—we have cataloged the entirety of the human genome. Through extensive study, we identified those genes that trigger reactive emotions—anger, fear, aggression. We removed them.”

I felt a chill run through me, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. “And in their place?”

Ortha glanced at me, her smile unbroken. “We selected for traits that enhance empathy, intelligence, cooperation. Conscientiousness and sympathy became the core of our society, eliminating the biological roots of selfishness, cruelty, and violence. The result is what you see around you.”

As she spoke, we entered a sun-drenched sitting room, its large windows opening onto a view of the sprawling gardens below. The tranquility was undeniable. There was no tension in the air, no underlying current of competition or mistrust. The people I had observed earlier seemed to exist in a state of serene equilibrium, going about their tasks with a quiet purpose. It was, by all external appearances, a paradise.

But I found a strange unease settling in. “If I may ask,” I said, taking a seat as Ortha gestured for me to relax, “how do your people manage decision-making? Governance, conflict resolution?”

Her eyes brightened. “We have perfected the art of collective decision-making. Democracy in its purest form. There is no division, no need for parties or opposing viewpoints. We make decisions together, in perfect consensus, because we no longer possess the reactive emotions that lead to conflict. Each citizen works for the benefit of the whole, and each decision is made in a spirit of cooperation.”

I nodded, though inwardly I struggled with the simplicity of her explanation. “No conflict at all? Not even in minor, daily matters?”

“None.” She confirmed. “Our people live with a shared purpose, free from the distractions of personal gain or ego. We have also eliminated the need for markets of competition. Currency is obsolete here. Goods and services are shared without question, as every citizen knows their role in maintaining the collective well-being. Hedonistic pursuits—luxuries, indulgence—have been identified as sources of discontent. We do not seek fleeting pleasures here. Instead, we work on bettering ourselves, improving our understanding of the world and each other.”

The words hung in the air, and I could feel the perfection of her society bearing down on me. It was almost oppressive in its completeness, its flawlessness. “What of labor?” I asked. “Do your people work at all?”

Her smile returned, softer this time. “For a time, we utilized mechanical labor. Machines performed most tasks, but we found that our society functioned best when humans were involved in the daily operations of life. So we reclaimed those responsibilities. People are happiest when they contribute directly to the greater good. It keeps us connected, grounded.”

I leaned back slightly, absorbing everything she was saying. “And yet,” I said slowly, “there are larger machines at work. For infrastructure, for building…?”

Ortha nodded. “Of course. We use advanced technology for larger projects, infrastructure, and development. But the day-to-day tasks, the rhythm of life, is best when handled by human hands.”

I looked out the window again, my gaze drifting over the perfect landscape, the sun-dappled city beyond. It was everything humanity had ever dreamed of—peaceful, orderly, flawless. And yet, in that very perfection, I felt the slightest hint of dread. A world without conflict, without dissent.

Ortha’s words washed over me, and though I nodded, outwardly impressed, a deeper unease began to take root within me. Perfection, it seemed, came at a cost.

As we sat overlooking the golden expanse of Ortha’s garden, she turned to me with a serene expression. Her voice was gentle, free of any urgency, but there was an unmistakable gravity to her words.

"You are welcome here, Alexandra," She began. "This world is open to all who seek a better life, to those who desire peace and purpose. We are always seeking new minds to join us—those who can contribute to the perfection we have built. Here, you can live freely. You can learn more deeply about yourself, about us, and continue your studies if you wish." She paused, studying me with an unreadable intensity. "Once we identify your place in our society—which we always do—you are free to live among us for as long as you wish."

Her offer lingered in the air between us, like the sweet, intoxicating scent of the flowers that bloomed all around. There was something oddly comforting about it, and for the briefest of moments, I felt tempted. After years of traveling the vastness of the cosmos, wandering from one world to another, there had always been a quiet part of me that longed for rest—a place to call home, even if only temporarily.

The perfection of this world, the tranquility it exuded, spoke to a weariness I hadn’t fully acknowledged within myself. The people here lived in peace, without fear, without struggle. I imagined what it would be like to study them more intimately, to live among them, to experience their serene existence firsthand. No more constant transit, no more threats from hostile worlds or uncertainty about the future. As someone who had spent years upon years studying almost solely the more chaotic aspects of human nature, this harmonious society was the ultimate contrast, a living example of what humanity could become.

But something gnawed at me, something that ran deeper than intellectual curiosity or the pursuit of rest. It was almost imperceptible at first—like the prickling of a nerve—but the more I considered Ortha’s offer, the more intense it became. A visceral reaction, a reflex I didn’t fully understand. The perfection of this world, which should have been enticing, felt wrong.

I couldn’t place the feeling exactly. It was like an undercurrent of disgust, an almost physical revulsion to the idea of staying here. This was a place where everything was meticulously clean, where peace was absolute, where every part of life functioned in flawless harmony. And yet, it felt too curated, too controlled. The very perfection I had admired from afar now seemed like a cage—a beautiful, golden cage, but a cage nonetheless.

“I appreciate the offer.” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, “But I’m afraid I must decline. There is still much work for me to do. This world is remarkable, yes, but it is only one of many in this region of the cosmos that I wish to catalog.”

Ortha nodded, her expression unchanged, her demeanor as warm and calm as ever. She made no attempt to press me further, no argument to sway me from my decision. “I understand. The pursuit of knowledge is a noble one. But remember, Alexandra, you are always welcome here. If ever you tire of your journey, you can return. You need only reach out, and we will find a place for you.” Her words, spoken with such sincerity, should have comforted me. Instead, they intensified that strange, creeping unease. I knew she was genuine—there was no trace of deception or hidden motive in her voice. Yet, it was that very authenticity that made the feeling of repulsion stronger. The perfection of this place, and its people, was all-encompassing, relentless in its completeness.

I thanked Ortha for her hospitality and left the mansion soon after, departing the planet without looking back. As my ship ascended into the quiet void of space, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. But with it came a nagging question, one that lingered in my thoughts long after I had left that world behind.

I had rejected perfection, not out of any rational fear or moral objection, but because something deep within me recoiled from it.

But why?

Humanity has always strived for perfection. We labor tirelessly to shape our environment, our societies, even our bodies into something closer to our ideals. And yet, when we come close to achieving that perfection, we shrink from it. We hesitate, we falter, as if some part of us knows that the perfection we seek is not what we truly desire.

It reminded me of the writings of Blaise Pascal, a thinker of antiquity who pondered the nature of gambling. Pascal observed that if you offer a gambling addict the money they stand to win without playing the game, they will find no satisfaction in it. Likewise, if you offer them endless opportunities to gamble but guarantee they will never win, they will be equally discontent. Pascal understood that the pleasure of gambling does not come from the money, nor from the act itself, but from the tension between the two—the anticipation, the uncertainty, the thrill of possibility.

Could it be that humanity’s pursuit of perfection is much the same? We tell ourselves that we seek a world without suffering, without chaos, without violence. But when we approach that ideal, when we come close enough to touch it, something in us pulls back. Perhaps it is the tension between our flawed nature and our pursuit of perfection that drives us. The journey toward it gives us meaning, but the destination… the destination, it seems, is not one we truly wish to reach.

I sat back, staring at the stars that stretched endlessly before me. Was that it? Was the quest for perfection merely an excuse to keep moving forward, to distract ourselves from the reality that we don’t want perfection at all? Is it to deceive ourselves into believing that what we really desire isn’t just the chase, the pursuit itself?

These musings left me with a terrifying residual thought that has plagued me ever since:

Perhaps we are destined to wander forever, always seeking a perfection we will never allow ourselves to attain.

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