Post with 3 notes
I find it strange, at times, when physicists appear so rooted in the idea that there exist inherently fundamental particles in nature. I myself feel far more deeply compelled to the notion that this is not the case. That the dimension of scale is one all its own which extends endlessly in two directions. For the sheer differentiation in scale which we have yet directly observed in the cosmos is beyond astonishing. It seems implausible that one might expect to find some definitive endpoint to something which is already so vast – like trying to define a largest or smallest number. Whether to invest one’s curiosity in theories of Branes and a physically real hyper-dimensional structure or a cyclic universe or simply the implications and interpretations of the strange properties of quantum physical interactions is not something I would be fit to impress upon you. I submit only that I am unconvinced that there will ever be found to be, in neither the grand nor granular, any true End of Greatness.
Question with 1 note
theroadunkown asked: What's eroding me within? Feelings! Sadness, depression, the overwhelming stress of life in general. What about you?
Not so dissimilar. I harbor that sadness and play host to depression, though mostly I’m crippled by thoughts and by questions. Life stirs an intimate stress when you know that a dust speck is suspect of nothing to no one. But don’t let the knowing defeat you, for at least you’re not knowing alone.
The road was slick with sleet and snow, and his vision was blurred from the blood loss. Permeating the woods a ubiquitous mist limited vision to not more than a meter ahead. A vague kind of understanding took hold of him as he realized he was dying, though in a detached way, as if hearing a voice trying to rouse you from sleep while you remain stuck in a dream. The steering wheel was starting to feel like water and he felt numb lips speaking her name. After a time that was neither here nor there he found himself floating, in limbo, suspended. For a beautiful moment he thought he had died, that somehow his consciousness made it through death itself. And then came the crashing; a loud, muffled sound which drummed to the rhythm that tossed him around. Even through the nothing of numbness he knew that his body was broken, fragmented and ruined. The empty space where his legs were seemed eerie and swift and grievous was the onset of fear. Suddenly all that he’d miss seemed to hit him; the singular bliss of begetting a son, the beautiful swing of her hips when she walked, the look as his mother departed the earth so content with the construct she’d nurtured from birth. Soon he could no longer see through the tears and the blood like a river all caked on his cheek. Blinded he whispered some curious inquiry into the ears of an imperfect god as all of the world seemed to reel in his temples and even what things he had feared he’d forgot.
There exists within me so vast a reservoir of untapped passion which funnels through my very bones and rides the current of my blood through breath by quantum breath of life, through all the daily wanderings and all the nightly sufferings and through my head, where lies a breadth of discontented wonderings.
I would rather die resigned and disconsolate that I never managed to find that person who could take me where I so desperately yearn to be, than pass on wondering if perhaps I should have looked a little harder. I’ve been fully prepared to die hopeless once before – I mean to ensure that if I face the situation again, that bleakness will be empirically warranted. What else am I to do with the undeserved extension I’ve been granted with this body, which houses my hopes and dreams and doubts and fears and everything I’ve ever known; for all these things are strictly linked by one communal fundament – I’ve only ever known them in my thoughts.
Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am; and as I am I am comprised of you, of everything we ever knew, of hopes and fears, the Earth, our tears and all their quantum elements. I am the face of empty space; these hands cradled the galaxy; my ancestry dates to ages immemorial, to the time before time was a concept. Forged in a hearth of nuclear fire, I walk the earth a testament to all the beauty of the cosmos, reifying existence itself by the very act of perceiving it. But so too do I rove this land ever exemplary of the fallacy of consciousness: for the very faculty by which I am gifted cognizance of myself and my environment will likely be my own undoing. I do hope; indeed, I pray - to God, to the Dead or the Void or whatever higher order there might be to the universe in which we live – that my failures and the failures of my generation represent a waning of the tide of suffering in human existence. That we shall perish in the penultimate era of a cruel and indifferent humanity, perhaps even living to see the death of the anthropocentricism of man and departing with some measure of faith that our species will live to grow beyond the bounds of our Mother Earth, to venture forth into that vast, expectant void to one day knock upon the door of God and pose that one ancient, exigent query: What are we doing here, and why?
Though I hold a sneaking suspicion that his answer may prove exceedingly simple: “Welcome home, my kin. It’s your turn.”