made by pats of butter

Hi, my name is Keith Bingham.  I’m a writer.  You might remember me from such memories as the time I introduced myself and said I was a writer.  In advertising, a lot of times they recommend that you repeat something, so that the message really gets across to the user.  The problem is I am done with users.  I’ve moved on in my life and I have no time for silly mind games.  Ha ha, I’m just kidding, my head is full of games, maps, traps, treasures, lions, tigers and bears.  That is totally fine with me, probably.  I wouldn’t know because I DIDN’T PUT THAT STUFF THERE, THE WORLD DID!
I’d assume the world did, because people like to think they are products of their environments.  Maybe they’re products of their genetics.  Maybe I’m just bred down from cave people, like my dog.  My dog is bred down from a wolf, maybe I am a domesticated human, too.  Maybe my natural form is wild, crazy, mashing berries on a rock with a stick so I can draw some painting that will last 300,000 years to confound modern day scientists.  Maybe we all confound scientists, and that’s why they’re always doing so much research because they just don’t get it.
You know the type.  They’re never satisfied intellectually.  They’re some kind of knowledge carnivores, ravenous and hungry for logic.
What category does that put us in?  Apex knowledge predators?  Sated societal vertebrates?  What are we?
I ask God this.  I ask him, “What are we?”  Us humans, I mean.  He knows this, assuredly.  He fathoms the deeps.  He is down.  Modern-day Jesus just gave me a high-five.  You kind of wonder if he ever wondered and marveled at the stars at night.
“I made these,” he thinks.
Yes, but can you make a rock so heavy that you can’t lift it?  We ask.
He says, “Keith.  You, and humanity make me wonder and marvel everyday.”
I’m just wondering if the J-man can get pleasantly surprised, is all.