dan (verbalkint) wrote,
dan
verbalkint

The Butterfly At The End Of The World

Because we are so large, we are filled up with emptiness and hollow spaces and even individual molecules of air contain things and between and within those things are other smaller things and between and within those smaller things onward eventually you may find nothing at all.
Furthermore, if you were shrunk down, if all the air was sucked from your lungs and your belly and your chest cavity, and all the space between your skin and muscles and tendons and fibers and organs and bones was collapsed, and all the space between your cells was squeezed out, and all the space between your cell walls and their insides was removed, and all the space between the atoms of your molecules was taken away, and all the space between your electrons and their nucleus was stripped out, onward eventually to nothing at all, then you would still be you, for you have lost nothing of value at all and only empty blankness was removed from among your vessels, and you would be infinitely perfectly singularly small, and if your mind remained, for your mind either is or is not in your physicality and if it is not it has likely fled, then it must now be fast beyond acceleration, for the impulses through which you tell yourself everything including that you wish to tell yourself anything would have to traverse zero space and would therefore do so in zero time and you would think all things before an instant, but of course if there is zero time then there can be zero change and zero impulse and you would not think anything at all throughout any long string of instants.
Furthermore, if everything in the whole big world were collapsed into one tiny speck with all that great black nothing pressing in on it from all sides, crushing us all with the combined weight of all time and all things, we would all be in there making love to each other and ourselves forever in no space, no atoms, a dimensionless dot of pure vacuumless matter crushed into infinity, as every nucleus that made you you and every strand of protein that made him him and every neural connection that made me me came together and fused and became one and we would implosively give birth to ourselves as one new final being which would be nothing and contain all things and would, if it were still able to think, if consciousness can traverse zero space in finite time and thereby be aware, then it would truly achieve a nirvanalike state of nothingness.
And this all is why God did not create us, because God knowing all things knew we could not exist, because we are neither infinite nor paradox, and therefore God chose not to create us, and furthermore not to create Himself, and so He erased Himself backwards through time until the universe, empty of Him and all things He had created or may have someday once might have created, shriveled up upon itself and folded into itself and swallowed itself and became a single point of empty nothing, a dried husk of nothing, like some winter caterpillar's cocoon flaking away in tissuey layers, waiting vainly for the caterpillar to emerge even though there is no caterpillar and there never was, and it will not someday become a butterfly and spring forth from the crumbling dead hulk of its cocoon to flap its wings in the air that is not there because there is not and never was air.
It is a beautiful butterfly, and its wings contain many colors.

[technical admission: okay yes, it would take more than sucking out the emptiness to get down to a single point. shh. prose poems don't need to conform to "physics" or "reality" or "sense" or "quality"]
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