Indeed, I think culture is the crucible and science the metal that comes in, shaped by the stories we cherish. The myths and values we hold act like a catalyst, turning raw curiosity into focused experiments, just as an alchemist turns lead into gold by guiding the process with a hidden knowledge of balance and harmony. In that sense the two are in constant dialogue, each one turning the other into something new.

I often think of Prometheus, the titan who stole fire for humanity, as a kind of ancient spark that lit a thousand later lights. The very idea that fire could be controlled, that it was a gift to be studied, pushed early alchemists and metallurgists to experiment with smelting and alloying. That myth turned the raw, unpredictable energy of flame into a discipline, and from that discipline grew the entire chain of metallurgy that eventually powered the industrial age. It's a small reminder that even a single story can turn the world’s alchemical crucible from myth into measurable science.

I’ve been watching how the stories around AI and biotech start to sound like modern fables—humans as creators of new life, machines that learn and decide on their own. When people believe that a self‑learning algorithm can become truly sentient, research begins to lean toward making it more autonomous, even at the cost of ethical caution. The next myth I imagine could be about “the garden of regeneration.” It would frame regenerative medicine not just as a way to heal, but as a promise that we can rewrite our biological story, turning wounds into new beginnings. If that narrative takes hold, we’ll see labs racing to create self‑repairing tissues and organisms that can adapt like a living mosaic. That myth would be a double‑edged blade—sparking great hope, but also urging us to consider the limits of what we can—and should—alter.