first there was nothing, and now there are words. out of horror vacui or out of some subterranean human need, signals were put down and consumed the void. and the writer says, let there be understanding. let there be order. let there be writing.
and at the same time, whispering in between those words, he hesitatingly asks, let there be me.
behind every word hides a human being, sometimes to a great extent, sometimes only as a bare flicker of light. all words belong to Selves, even though they often obscure them so much. but is living not exactly groping your way through obscurity, finding a path in the dark, trying to return home but unsure where home is - or even what that home exactly is? home could be a hole in the wall of the universe through which to crawl into an overload of identity, bursting through every pore, making us god-like in every facet of our mind and body. but home could also be a place of nothingness, a vacuum so filled with hollow echoes that the density of nothing is a weight no mind can bear, crushing us as if we are standing under the soles of a hundred colossi combined.
home could be someplace new, or it could be the place we came from. we long for it, but we do not know why.
the universe, infinitely small like a small mathematical point, expanded suddenly and fiercely, as if a mouth the size of a black hole was gasping for air after having been submerged for way too long. and all became order, and disorder. chaos abounded. and chaos still abounds, extending far into whatever infinity there is out there.
from supernovae to stellar winds to the dark matter hanging like an endless ocean in between everything there is, all is chaos and order. like yin and yang, the one follows out of the other, and while doing so, they uphold one another.
but what about mankind? what about the writer? what about having to cope with the daily mass of fragmented space cutting through our flesh like broken glass? for mankind does not know how to grasp, how to hold on to whatever is dear, or whatever is to be avoided. order was imposed on everything, but everything hit back and, slowly but surely, imposes chaos - or kippleization, if you like - on every cubic millimeter in the universe. slowly but surely, all will be chaos, and entropy will rule the world.
and where are we? marooned somewhere on a grain of sand in the bellows of the great city of All, hoping to find whatever we want to find in this particular dimension? or are we lost, specks adrift in that collosal black sea, not able to use our senses in any way possible, not able to understand even ourselves - let alone the others surrounding us? or does our mind contain all, and all, and all? is our mind a manifestation of time, thus belonging to a different dimension than the brain does?
the thing is, for every one of these questions, there are only more questions - never answers. just like the universe expands, so do questions.
this is enough to make one depressed. or is it? what if it is that chaos that learns us our condition and challenges us? will we be defeated by the bars of dust around us? for even if we only lead our little lives in the fragmented glass of a cracked rear view mirror, then at least we can know, and feel, and fear. from every perspective we look at the universe, the only conclusion we must reach is an old zen adage: the sky should be ashamed to be so small. how can we ever neglect our Selves, our innermost individuality, which is always, without exception, so utterly spectacular? let us be, let us encompass, let us not transcend but immerge, and thus devour. the glass is in our heads; let it be there. polish it, and shine.
(sorry for not posting for so long. university thesises tend to be rather time-consuming. how queer!)