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There was nothing particularly wrong with the place.

The lights were bright. The music consisted of old hits from the time when Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan were president. The decor was brightly colored plastic. There were people everywhere, including a table of teen girls making TikTok videos.

There was nothing offensive about any of it, but it was bland and boring and distracting. You could have been anywhere in the country. I tried to write. I tried to read.

And yet, after a while, I felt a quiet urge to leave.

I stepped outside into the warm evening breeze and stood still. As the door slowly closed behind me, the drop in noise was almost physical. The air felt different. The world slowed down just enough for me to notice it again.

And in that moment, I realized — once again — something I’ve observed more and more over the last decade or so. There’s nothing wrong with most of what our culture produces. Not really.

It’s not evil. It’s not low-quality. In many cases, it’s the opposite. It’s engaging and creative and well-made. It’s designed by people who know exactly how to capture your attention and hold it.

That’s not the problem. The problem is that there’s too much of it.

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It was 6:30 a.m. when I stepped outside after being awake all night.

I had been writing — moving from one idea to another — creating bits and pieces of things that mostly aren’t ready to be published. Some of it had been for a book. Some had been for YouTube videos. Some had been for film projects. And part of it was for a ridiculous parody ad that I’ll use as a minor piece of a video.

Most of what I create isn’t great. Some of it is mediocre. Some of it never sees the light of day. But every now and then, something clicks and I’m able to make something really good. And when that happens, I know it.

As I stepped onto my front steps, the light breeze and gentle warmth outside were perfect. I looked above me to a beautiful moon peeking through partly cloudy skies.

Everything felt right. I was exhausted after working all night. But I felt alive.

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As the minutes and seconds ticked down toward the launch of NASA’s Artemis II mission Wednesday evening, I felt unexpectedly emotional.

I wasn’t sure why I felt like crying. All I knew was that what I was watching was triggering the same sorts of feelings I used to have as a small child watching Apollo rockets launch missions which finally reached the moon.

And then it hit me.

As a child watching humans reach toward space, I was full of optimism about the future. We were breaking free of the confines of this planet. Humans were going to leave their known world — once again — and try to build something new elsewhere.

We were reaching for a new start. We were going to bring Star Trek to life.

And as I watched the countdown to the launch of Artemis II today — with tears in my eyes — I realized why it was so emotional to watch this.

All of my fears and frustrations and anger about our society today faded just slightly. I was emotional to feel just a tiny bit of the optimism and hope that I felt as a child.

Maybe — just maybe — we might still overcome the darkest parts of what we’re doing to ourselves. Maybe we could still overcome all the challenges we face.

Maybe I could feel hope again for the future of humanity.

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