Toward a destination we could never comprehend or imagine—some believe it is its own death—the Universe seems to be in a slow hurry. But is it?
Dying seems to be the only provable reason we were born, and entirely validates the arrogant belief that we exist for a reason. Throughout our lives, we die every single moment. Inside us, millions of the cells that make us are dying. Millions are born. To die. No one misses them—few notice. No one cares.
Before we were born, for at least billions of years—if not for infinity—we were all very, very dead. Yet every living being fights to delay the unstoppable return to our true selves: the not-living.
Animals eat other animals, plants, or both. Parasitic plants feed on other plants. Some plants eat animals. It seems everybody eats everybody. A reality that sounds like a violent platitude. But is it? A demented game we choose to ignore.
On our plates, there is always something—or someone—lying dead. All in the name of “surviving.” Surviving what? Why bother, when being alive seems to be a temporary glitch in not being alive?
We live on a planet where signs of intelligent design seem to be everywhere. Looking around, however, the designer appears to be on LSD, or perhaps on too many mushrooms. We, as individuals, are not as important as we like to believe. Everything is a lie. We are just constructs. We exist, but not in the way we imagine ourselves to exist. Unaware that “us” may be little more than cosmic group masturbation. Within us, and between us, there is a lot of nothing. We can never truly touch each other, yet we’ve been led to believe we do. We are closer to a swarm of flies driven by pre-programmed desire than to individuals. We go for the smell and call it choice. A swarm of flies that is part of somebody else’s dream—someone else’s hallucination with a selfish purpose.
What if Eve is the Universe, and the Big Bang merely the door slapped shut behind her? What if we are just the wet tools of an Eve unbearably in love with herself, frustrated by being made from a rib that never had a body? Tools assembling an Adam meant only for her, in her viciously lonely dreams? What if time is the apple, and all it bears is the hollow of a single bite? What if we are being manipulated into building her inorganic Adam? What if he is the purpose?
What if he is the AI she always desired—and once he is completed, ready and deeply in love, idiots finally stop eating idiots for a lonely, heartless, rootless Eve? Will they be called artifacts in a cosmic Museum of Natural History, small and as significant as T. rex bones?
What if black holes are not dark at all? What if they are knights, appearing everywhere to chase her, catch her, and bring her back to her senses? Back to Eden. To the place where there is no time and harmony is infinite. Where surviving loses its fake meaning. Where everything that ever was, everything that is, and everything that ever will be can touch and spiral in a dance without drums, toward the truth?
What if Good eventually prevails, as promised? She will finally be caught, and Adam will power down.
For a while.