I’m a layabout, little prick. I tend to curl into a ball, rest my eyes, and hope for the world to provide me with its best. I think that’s all I can do after nineteen years of existence. In fact, I think that’s all anyone can do at all. This is because the Universe exists, and thus, so do we.
Before I expound further, I would like to just thank the Universe for always being there. “Thanks.” And if I can be so disrespectful to the reader, but generous to the Universe, I’d like to say something else. This is everything that I have learned up to this point of my life, and sadly, it isn’t much. It is directed to the Universe once more.
“People say there isn’t such a thing as progress anymore, Universe, but I know otherwise. So do you. You just keep on expanding. Keep on growing. Talk about progress. It’s never ending with you. Most people can’t understand how that is progress, forgetting that from darkness, you became everything. Then on March of 92’, your continual culmination – that stream of progression from the Big Bang to human flesh – formed me. That was another instance of progress. My first impression was that I never asked to come here. Why would I want to live in a Universe that someone else screwed up?”
“But as I grow, dear friend, dear Universe, I realize why I’m here. You wish for me to culminate back, so to speak. I will do this by using those evolved thumbs that separate me from my ancestral apes, that big brain filled with cranium popcorn, and that incessant heartbeat passing stardust through my veins – all of which you created – to their minimum abilities. I will be lazy. I will spend my days picking my bum and sniffing it after for entertainment. Gross? Perhaps. Matters what I pick and what it smells like. Oh and Universe, don’t be disgusted. You are the king of smells and made some smelly things in your heyday. Look at us.”
For those confused souls, do not fret. Even though this piece has just begun, confusion is the very first step to progression. The Universe knows this. It was so confused that it once was a ball that wished to be an everything. One day, however, confusion settled, and it became an everything. The everything, I should say.
As little bits of the Universe, progress we shall, and if we get confused on the way to wherever, then we are certainly doing something right. Who knows; like the Universe we might realize we are something else other than questioning humans. One day, we may be answering gods. Let’s try.
If a culmination is indeed accepted as the sum of all things prior to it; whether it be numeric values, girls slept with, or sexual diseases transmitted (gotchya, bitches!), then everything up to one point is the resultant process of everything before it. This is because a continuation of one thing is a continuation of the next. Succession, and the consequent succession after that, is necessary for all things – for all things known and extant at least. Note those two stipulations.
This can be observed in the creation of the Universe, or so people smarter than me tell me. Here’s what I’ve been told: one atom barges into another, and then helium is created, and then a star is formed by billons upon billions of helium molecules coalescing together, and then a gravitational pull draws in other gases nearby, and then planets are copulated in what can only be described as promiscuous cosmic bonking, and then life swells in the baths of argon, and then all of a sudden, humans are hooting and hollering that this planet is too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter and the Universe is too complex to understand and that we just feel very, very alone.
In such a way, all things that ever were, ever have been, and ever will be stretch from a timeline that is connected. Each subsequent individual event also starts an infinite amount of branching, all of which can be delineated back to the original point. In our instance, the original point is the creation of the Universe, although creation may be a poor choice of wording. Such word choice fails to consider that there may have been prior Universes to our own, and ours is a subsequent Big Crunch from something before it. This, in my limited knowledge, is not known yet, and thus, I will not bother with. It is similar to one not bothering with unicorns and the like. As much as I like unicorns, I’ll leave them for the pages of children stories. They do not belong here. “This ain’t no kids tale,” as they say.
“Well, shit.” You volley back like Tolstoy. You thought this was a children’s essay. It sure is written like one. But besides the insults, you – dear, thoughtful reader – think that this essay should be more age appropriate. “Children should be able to read this,” you quip, “it’s on the Internet and the Internet is for everyone.”
Dear reader, children can and should read this piece. I agree with you. I’d recommend it to children if I could. Going to children on the street and telling them to “go on my site and read my stuff” is generally frowned upon, so I may not do that. More than that, however, is that I am a child myself. I just plopped onto this planet a while ago. As a consequence of this, and listening to your most astute consideration, I shall now tailor this essay to the children.
Thing is, I always was. Everyone is a child. People can’t imagine that they ever were, and hide the fact that they still are. Most cringe at the thought that there was a time when they didn’t feel they had control of their lives and thus were at the mercy of their bowels. One little step, and they were pooping their own diapers. I don’t blame them. It’s hard to imagine one’s butt smeared with poo. Try to imagine it now, if only for a second. And after you do so, all you can really say is, “Well, shit” like Tolstoy again and who knows, you might, well, shit yourself for old times sake. Tolstoy did so when he was dying. Most of us will.
“Well, shit.” I repeat.
But anyways, ready kiddies? Here comes the airplane. It isn’t the prosthetic, run-of-the-mill kind unfortunately. Instead, it is slightly dilapidated because I’ve tried folding literary origami into burnt out bottled nosed sentences and watered down winged letters all for the “write” brothers, but sometimes, this doesn’t come out right, and the engine doesn’t start, and the plane doesn’t lift off, and I’m left here on the ground wondering what to do. If that happens, kiddies, I’ll report a crash landing.
Now, that I have warned you, dear kiddies, we can begin again. If you’re still reading this, keep reading. One day you’ll realize that there is very little wisdom in these words. All of what I am saying is just a bunch of ideas strung together from nilly-willy. The string of ideas I am going to claim, and have already claimed, are like a thin crack on a barely frozen lake. One wrong step, and you’ll drown. So please, don’t believe anything I say. Or anything anyone else says. Especially do not believe those people who tell you to believe them.
If you do believe it kiddies, then something great will happen. You will begin to understand that all events are a spur of events that bring about its own cosmic reflection and reflects its own existence. Each thing that occurs is necessarily because of the very fact that it occurs. In such a paradoxical way, everything is connected. For example, a bottle is on the table because the world had formed, and only because the world formed. Without the world having formed, then the bottle would certainly not have been on the table.
This seems a tad extreme, and at times difficult to wrap ones head around, but I dare take it one step further. Lets whiz our heads around time travel. Say that you, little kiddie, being a person of unparalleled intelligence (as your parents say), have finally cracked the mystery of time. Somehow you were able to segment space and time itself, and as a result, built a time machine that could fly you to any point in the past. Strapping yourself into the hot seat reserved only for the Master of Time, you tick off the various buttons. You wish to to do something altruistic like stopping Hitler but you wind up in Mesozoic Era instead. It’s weird that mistakes can happen to geniuses too. Humans are funny like that.
You’re time machine warps into an area heavily covered in trees. Little dinosaurs roam around your time machine. They have blood smeared over their reptilian body. Their eyes bulge from their bony sockets. They lick their leathery lips at you. Interestingly you realize that although you failed to coordinate to the correct point in time, you have found Hitler after-all: Hitler was just a dinosaur with a mustache. Or maybe, a dinosaur was Hitler with a mustache. If there’s a difference, it didn’t matter much.
The Hilter-esque dinosaurs circle around your time machine, indifferent to your genius and the scientific miracle they have just witnessed. They only care about the muscles that fuel your genius. They can’t even tell that you were a genius. Only humans could. Only monkeys could, I should say.
But maybe if they only took a nibble from your arm, then maybe they’ll say in some reptile language, “Ah, yes. This is the meat of a genius. You can tell because his muscles are all strained from frustration, and his bones are brittle from trying to balance the world on his shoulders.” That’s because, believe it or not, a genius tastes different. If this happens, and the dinosaurs snack on a little piece of your flesh, then maybe they’ll notice you more than for your meat.
You won’t give them that chance though. You came prepared with your “Dino-B-Gone” spray, another invention of yours. Ingenuity has no bounds, little kiddies. Believe that also.
Despite your meticulous preparation, however, you did not plan for the weather. Time travel devices do not come with meteorologists. And so when you arrive, it is blistering hot. Your clothes melt to your skin, and you sweat so much that you very well could fill an ocean. If only there was one around, you could cool off in its generous waters. Of course this would be a bad idea with dinos floating around, but bad ideas, when in a bad situation, don’t look so bad.
Thus, you search for the largest water mass around. While on your search, you notice a mosquito, or what you think looks like a mosquito, land on your skin. Its chromatic eyes seem to reflect the world back at you, and consequently, you get bugged out. Such a reaction is only natural as it is part of your innate conscious of killing first and asking later. Back home, you had your spray cans of insecticide, bug lights, mosquito netting; an entire industry dedicated to killing bugs. Here, lacking such amenities, you have to make due with what you have. Fists of fury swimming in sweat.
As you spied the bug, doing what bugs do, scurrying around, you performed a move that would make Jet Li jealous. Smack. One punch was all it took to kill this abomination. Bug guts slosh between the webs of your fingers like a trophy.
Beginning to pick off the evidence of battle, remorse and guilt and second thoughts ambush you. You had just killed a bug for no reason except for being a bug. Did the bug have dreams? Had you turned a little family into a widow and orphans? Was the bug trying to warn you about the thin layer between space and time that has been warped and the ramifications thereof?
Maybe, but a little voice muttered, “Hey – dumbass – you’re not Disney.” But still, little kiddie, you wondered. While that same voice continued to mutter expletives, you started to feel weaker. In fact, you started to feel not like the Master of Time but as if time was mastering you. Suddenly, your hands began to ebb away from existence like a chameleon blending to its background. Your feet vanished. Then your torso. Hands. Hair. You.
Poof, poof, past.
Such an illustration is an example of how one resultant process is related to the next. Take one variable out of the equation of time, for example the mosquito, and no longer is it an equation, but a jumble of symbols that have no relationship to another. Perhaps even space would fall apart as a consequence. Perhaps you would. We do not simply know as of yet without a workable model of time.
This idea has vast implications, despite not knowing whether such immense ramifications would enfold in a time travel scenario. Various philosophical thoughts much greater than my own purport this very relationship to different degrees. Notable examples are by Leibniz’s concept of the existence of incompossibles, Descarte’s Dualism, Spinoza’s Monism, Hegel’s Absolute idealism and Whitehead’s Process philosophy. The list stretches on; so far in fact, that such an idea of a culmination of existence strings its way into determinism. For example: the bottle is on the table because the bottle was meant to be on the table because any other process would not result in the bottle being on the table. Et cetera.
Whether that is true or not remains to be seen, as it may simply be that yes, all atoms are constant in this Universe, but not every atom is necessary. Who is to say that one atom has not remained completely stagnant since creation? Who is to say that it was even created? Why couldn’t it be always there? In the one second before the Big Bang, all hell in the physical world breaks loose, and really, nothing makes sense. So perhaps then some things are in fact not a culmination of other events, but an independent event in time.
Unlikely. Though one atom could’ve been independent initially and thus created independently of the Big Bang, this is a foolish notion. I grant that this maybe possible in some worldview that does not lie in accordance with the seemingly omnisciently placed natural laws observed, but that still does not imply it is independent. First off, such reasoning is like talking about unicorns again, and didn’t I tell you that “this ain’t no kid’s story”? Secondly, even a sole atom has forces, such as the gravitational force, which causes attraction to all bodies in the known Universe. This force may be infinitesimally small, but understand that infinitesimally small still exists.
And so, to relate back to the introduction, kiddies. The way in which I culminate back to the Universe is by being just about the hardest working sloth you’ll meet. As I said, I’m a layabout, little prick.
Some people don’t agree with this initial speculation. Instead, they are adamant about the fact that I am hard worker; a little busy ant in a busy anthill going about my busy day. Most would go beyond such an analogy to call me an outright keener, and well within reason I suppose. They observe me falling under the routine of schoolwork, and docilely submitting to it. They have seen me studying, handing in assignments, and sometimes doing well, sometimes doing – well – not so well. Hell, some even consider this essay a display of my hard work.
Little do they know, however, that such actions are a necessary step to inaction. If my actions of now can spur inaction later, then I’ll be the first to admit that yes, I’m hardworking if only to be hardly working. This follows from the cause and effect relationship I demonstrated above. If I was able to prove that there is effect that is started from a cause, at least macroscopically, then this may follow. This is because the only way to enjoy the sunshine is to first have rain. That is the rule of life. Let’s explain life together, albeit lazily.
To continue down the allegories, say hypothetically that I was a farmer. Every day I would toil in the earth. Whether it be under a sullen sunless sky or against the raucous, roaring rainfall, I had to do my work. I would plant. I would water those plants. I would wait. All in the hope that one day I will be able to harvest. Sleepy mornings must be sacrificed. Nights must be spent in repose. The harvest won’t come itself, and so like a busy bee, I buzz.
The old adage of reaping what you sew soon follows, and the agricultural honey of whatever staple crop I was hoping to yield oozes out. It flows out at an uncontrollable rate. I have both wealth and food enough to last me until the next two harvests. Certainly, the agricultural gods are smiling on me this year. Even though most of my other prayers went unanswered, it seemed at least this one squeaked through the clouds, past the Pearly Gates, fluttered along with angels, and stumbled right into God’s Almighty Ear, God bless its soul.
Or did it? As a farmer, I don’t look for reasons when lightning kills a cow, or a tree falls down running a quarter of the crops, or a flood sweeps over the land. That’s just the way things are. The way things are always going to be. Nothing I can do will change that. Instead, there is just the stuff people do.
In the months that led up to my successful yield, I clattered my teeth against the screaming murmur of mediocrity. That’s the stuff I did. No measures were too superfluous to ensure that produce was obtained. I left no chance to the gods to say otherwise. Rain, snow, sleet, or sun, harvest would happen, and by golly, it would be a great one.
Thus with all measures taken, and the harvest completed, the sun faded over the now barren hills that once fostered crop. Like the sun, I set and can finally relax. For every day we rise in the light, only to fall asleep again in the dark. That is how it works. To have one thing, you must first have the other. Through health, sickness. Through life, death. Through action, inaction.
Consider that story. It rains true of my vice of laziness; the vice I admire. I believe that to have inaction, it takes action. Laziness can only be enjoyed when one is not lazy. So the paradoxes roam.
Some would say that this is not so much a paradox, but instead, a formal negation. I beg to differ. Consider the harvesting tale again. Only once I step back from my harvest, and from the work I do, do I discover that I have increased the rewards I have gleaned from it. Constantly working to the ends of my wits would not increase the yield I produced. Eventually I reach a threshold and any work beyond this point will hinder rather than help. In such a way, it is a paradox, not simply a negation.
But such bantering is for the lords of semantics, and not my primary concern, little kiddies. You will have your days of toiling around with the rich and yet so poor vocabulary later. When that day comes, you will find out that you will not be able to describe the simplest and most mundane emotions, that your tongue clutters up in your throat when asked a question, and that you say all the wrong words anyways.
That, however, is for another day. Realize though that although some may dub me as a keener, I wish to call them nincompoops, to use your lingo kiddies. A greater insult has not been hurled since elementary school. I only resort to such barbarianism because they don’t know jack shit about jack shit, to use my lingo kiddies.
My current outward perception isn’t as simple as two points and drawing a line from the present till tomorrow. There’s a wormhole in between the points, and each point lies atop of the other. As a result, I only do enough work to throw my crap in the wormhole, and hope to see it on the other side. Whether I will ever see that crap materialize on the other side, I am not sure, and maybe, I never will. But with cause, there is effect, and if the Universe keeps expanding, keeps progressing, maybe I have a chance. Believe that as well.