What if we are already in a black hole.
All space and time are compressed into one and can never escape. We have the observable universe dancing around us in a never-ending cycle. All while our universe continues to uniformly expand at forty percent of the speed of light and scarily the speed is increasing. In our unescapable universe within this black hole, other black holes exist as per the majority of large galaxies. Black holes so massive that we can barely calculate their size.
And perhaps then within these black holes in the galaxies of our universe, once you cross the event horizon of one and go past the point of no return. Before the gravitational forces can twist and tear you into pieces, then compress you down infinitely. You reach the point where you can never escape and all of eternity passes you by. You find yourself in another universe that again continues to uniformly expand at forty percent of the speed of light and scarily the speed is increasing. In this unescapable universe within this particular black hole, that other black holes exist as per the majority of galaxies.
Then perhaps the universe that we started from, before we crossed another black hole’s event horizon and reached the point of no return. Perhaps that universe is itself is a black hole in another universe.
Circles within circles. Unending, interleaving the fabric of reality where we exist and don’t all at the same time.
Perhaps that is how we gods exist from one to another, at these scales and beyond. How we make up all that is and is still yet to come. The endless circle repeating over and over again. Across mythology and story, the same stories are told on a thousand million planets, worlds without end. When we reach the point where even the gods are reborn. Knowing not themselves, until they do or remember.
We wish we could when we would not.
We wish we did, but we don’t.
The river of sleep that all succumb to in it’s forgotten finality.
Ending and beginning.
The story is written, unwritten and rewritten.
Until nothing remains, not even the memory of what once was…
Chapter 24, Scene 5 – Mongruxx: WolfPac (Copyright 2018)
I am finding it harder to care about things. My time means more to me than a possession. What we subjectively experience as time passing by, doesn’t really, it’s just our experience of this subjective reality. How our brain filters out the bulk of the input overload from our eyes, skin, taste, smell, etc. and puts together a picture that we “experience”. Then, even that is affected by how our body may be reacting to being hungry or stressed, or if we feel depressed or happy even…
It is a big stinking mess. It’s hardly fair to even call us conscious at all. If that’s what we are. Maybe we have moments of it, between feeling anxiousness, hunger, feeling threatened, aroused, etc.
Only in those moments of clarity when our turbulent minds are calm and placid, do we perhaps experience consciousness. As we expand ourselves and reach out to be something else. Most of the time we are not much better than animals. Like feral pigs rooting around in the dirt, snarling and arguing. Feeling fear and regret. Flinching away from the pains that surround us. The word conscious is a Latin word, meaning being aware or knowing. We are aware of ourselves internally and externally. But most of that is either external stimuli or our own internal stimulus.
I have met many people over my life, that had very little internal awareness of themselves. That actively chose to be externally focused. With no inner life what so ever. Like alligators sitting in a bog looking for their next meal.
Or a duck perched in a tree, where ducks are not supposed to be, but that would be fine with me, if a duck chose a tree, to see what it could see while trying to be, as happy as a duck could be while sitting in a tree.
It is our story.
Your story and mine. Each of us individually. Sometimes together, sometimes not. But it is the story that matters. That is why we get so engrossed in TV, movies, Netflix, video games, books, and the Internet. But our story matters not, as much as the story overall.
This story of the expanding universe, the civilizations that rise and fall. Across a thousand billion planets of which we are one. Drifting, moving, across a universe that is expanding at 40% of the speed of light.
We want our story to matter. Linkedin is full of people telling everyone to follow their dream, work more and longer to achieve those same dreams. At a certain point, you begin to wonder if it is some self-masturbatory exercise. People lost in the smallness of their lives and “passions”. Our galaxy the “Milkyway” will crash into the Andromeda galaxy around 3.75 billion years from now. That is part of the story. Small among the thousand billion galaxies that exist. Humanity will in all likelihood be gone long before then without even relics or ruins to show that we were once here on this planet.
I sit here looking out over the golf course writing this. In the distance, I see a storm gathering. The blue jays’ flit and flutter, eating from the ground. The ducks gather wagging their tails performing their dance rite of spring. And my flickering moment of existence, as I sit in the cold with a cigar and a black cup of quickly cooling coffee.
My story is important only to me and I am slowly discovering that isn’t either. Not more than a nanosecond of light, as it travels forever onward until dissipating into nothingness.
Sitting in my garage this morning smoking a cigar, drinking coffee, and feeling grumpy, I realized something.
I like it.
I like feeling rough and raw. Unshaven, the burn of a cigar and strong black coffee. The endless black that reaches out before us as we hurtle through space at forty percent of the speed of light.
Bugs on a rock.
This time aware of what I am. Knowing what matters and sometimes hating this whole human condition. The balance of all that pulls at us. Emotions like waves that constantly threaten to crash us against the rocks. The opportunity to learn to balance it all. The existence of emotionality tied so strongly through our bodies that seek constantly to control us. The ability to use our minds and perhaps across a thousand billion lives become something more than the traps that are the gods and daemons.
The gods and daemons are traps.
Traps of emotions. Traps of becoming an emotion that only owns itself in an endless spiral of nothingness. Two-sided coins that take us nowhere. That’s what a lot of the daemons and gods may be. Perhaps some are more.
Our bodies are machines. Machines that are dedicated to processing food, water and air. A fair amount of our brain is used to run the machine that is us. Beyond that comes emotions and thought. Emotions are from part from the mind, but largely from the body. Because the body remembers.
Bugs on a rock.
Then there is the mind. Right back where we started from. Struggling to overcome the emotional body and all that encompasses. Wisdom comes from reflection on a life of experience.
I often find truth in interesting places. Watching “Blacklist” on Netflix, the protagonist Ray Reddington said, “Wisdom is wasted on the old”. The young don’t want to hear it. So you end up shouting to an empty room. But in my thoughts, the room isn’t empty. I am in it. So perhaps the wisdom is wasted at all. Perhaps my enjoyment of this wisdom, what I have learned over my life and self reflection makes it all worthwhile to me.
Bugs on this rock. Traveling at forty percent of the speed of light.
And the speed is increasing…
I am a pilot in my own mind and emotions.
I didn’t feel like I am the sense of ”I am” more and more of the time this last week, but just a pilot of this collection of emotions, PTSD, and many other things that seem to make up this mental compilation of me. It feels scary at times, a series of white water rapids that threatens to spill me off into the raging torrent.
I remember decades ago when it was just me. The world out of control, people ”doing” things to me. It wasn’t good. I felt helpless. The direction of life going where it would. Now it feels much more like riding a wave. Piloting the consciousness that is me, riding this wave. Riding it until it breaks gently against the shore. Or crashes into the rocks.
Either one is fine, on the other side of the black.
The river of dreams that is the black. All of the things we can’t remember life to life. The immense burden of the weight of our histories across a thousand million lives in parallels of the endless realities branching out. Too much for one mind or not? I don’t really know. Perhaps instead it is learning to pilot the mind of this entity that we are. Then maybe we can ingest all of this at once the way the gods do.
Coming back home, I feel reconnected back to my sweet loving wife, this my daily existence, work, etc. Still, it feels strange sitting here in my garage smoking a cigar and working on application issues with a group of people spread across the globe. In my mind, I build another model of application data flows as I have done so many times before. Like a temp table of a database, this too I shall dump once resolved. Eve6 plays “Small town trap” as I write this.
Writing the characters in my novel is similar to piloting my consciousness, only maybe a bit harder. Inside my mind, it is a bit more like keeping yourself balanced while not being overwhelmed by the surge of emotions. The characters are all written by me. They become like friends that you know and enjoy getting to know. Watching them change and grow, much like the people we love around us. But I do find it exhausting at times being in so many different heads. It kind of makes sense to me why so many novels have only a couple of main characters of protagonist and antagonist. But then life can be wearying. Why wouldn’t creating be also? Even in the Christian mythos god rested in the seventh day.
Visiting my mother in California. We ate out at restaurants, went to the movies a few times and talked. As I traveled through the last five days (or revolutions of our planet), I felt my mind in exquisite detail. The engagement of my amygdala in freeze, flight or fight when we tried to capture her cat. To trim its claws as I felt a sympathetic response to the cat being in full-blown freeze, flight or fight. The feeling of just biding my time, escaping the worries that I have running in the background.
Our minds are strange and wild beasts. We may think we have control of our thoughts and directions, but it doesn’t take much to send us off our chosen trail, to wander lost in the woods of emotions. The emotions are often driven by our bodies and betray us. The thoughtful logical contemplativeness lost to a driving emotion. An emotion that is locked in place like the giant granite boulders in southern California. Possible to move and overcome, but like the boulders, only with much difficulty and effort. I wish it was easier.
That the body did not remember.
But it does.
Maybe that is the point. Overcoming the crushing histories that we carry within us. That sear and burn us until we screamingly escape into whatever it is that we escape into.
Bugs on a rock. Hurtling through space at forty percent of the speed of light outward. Living for a brief moment until we don’t. Nothing forgotten, nor remembered. Only the endless movement through the black.
January first, 2019.
Last night at midnight, as my beautiful wife lay sleeping next to me, I thought about time. Our planet had completed yet another revolution around our sun. All while our galaxy speeds away at eighty percent of the speed of light from other galaxies far, far away. As we are moving with consistent motion, are we experiencing the relativistic effects or are they? For each revolution of our earth around our small sun, have they gone around thousands?
We all experience time differently. Our reality made up of the experience that our brain creates for us. Real, not real, who is to know?
Something to think about in this new year.