Something weird has been happening to this world-renowned web columnist as of late. I've been hearing strange voices inside of my noggin'. Not that I'm totally unfamiliar with voices in my head, I hear them all the time, but these ones seem slightly different. It's almost like someone is communicating with me or trying to channel their words through me from another time or place…I can't really describe it. I think my only recourse is to use my Tibetan monk training, focus on these telepathic messages and transcribe them in column form. Excuse me while I begin reciting my mantra and enter a Zen-like state…wax on…wax off…wax on…wax off…wax on…wax off…

As a world-renowned cave painter it is my solemn duty to transcribe the significant events that occur within my tribe on a daily basis. How many cycles of the warming sky orb have I spent carefully documenting the happenings of my tribe? A blank cave wall can be an unforgiving mistress, but my fur-lined brush soaked with bison blood has been able to eloquently apply my thoughts and opinions with relative ease. It is a thankless job however. I am subjected to numerous sarcastic remarks from many of my other tribesmen who do not understand the work I do. "Christor! Do you think your brush will be able to help us in our hunt for mammoth meat? Maybe you can paint the beast to death with numerous vicious strokes of your brush? Ha! Ha! Ha!" Their words have no effect on me, for little do they realize that I am evolving. I am making strides to bring our clan to a whole new level of existence with my work. But then I begin to think carefully. As I scratch my protruding frontal lobe in deep ponderous thought I begin to think to myself…have we evolved enough?

Don't get me wrong, life is good. Mammoth meat is plentiful. I dwell in a luxurious cave lined with the finest of animal pelts and since I've begun walking erect my lower back pain has magically disappeared. I have access to the most modern of conveniences such as the bashing rock, the crushing stone and the smiting boulder. Our tribeswomen are now creating the most fashionable pelt designs our tribe has ever seen. Never has deerskin looked so good on me. Besides the fact that their efforts to gather fruits and vegetables is at an all time high this season. We truly live in a golden age. Recently our tribe's scientists have made great inroads in hunting technology. By affixing a sharpened stone to a tree limb we have created a device that can easily slay the delicious animals that live on our land. With one carefully placed throw, one of our hunters can fell the evasive wild boar with relative ease. This new advanced technology scares me to some degree. I have been comforted with the words from our chieftain that this new device will only be used for the purposes of hunting. But I wonder… So here I am living relatively comfortably in this truly modern society. I have all the amenities a man could need to survive yet why do I feel something is missing? I have food, shelter and numerous tribeswomen to soothe my savage passions but I feel unfulfilled somehow. The nights are getting progressively colder and soon tiny feathers of coldness will begin falling from the sky and covering our once lush green landscape. It is during these periods of time our tribe spends many cold nights huddled together in a single cave in order to survive the bitter cold. I ask myself, "Christor? Does it have to be this way?" With all of these modern inventions being created can someone not create something that will warm our tribe during these cold seasons? I mean the throwing stick is great and my life hasn't been the same since we've started using the crushing stone, but what about warmth. Don't get me wrong, I hold nothing against our efforts to advance our hunting techniques, but maybe we should try focusing our goals on other aspirations.

Maybe I complain too much. Who am I but a humble, world-renowned cave painter? I think sometimes I should be thankful for what I have and not worry so much about what I have not. I mean how can life get any better than this? Now if you'll excuse me, young Mathron has just rolled in this smooth round rock with a hole in the middle into my cave. He's prattling on about how this device is going to change the whole face of the tribe. Poor naïve Mathron and his crazy ideas. Will he ever learn?

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