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Join date : 2015-03-28
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fragment://apotheosis Empty
PostSubject: fragment://apotheosis   fragment://apotheosis Icon_minitimeSun May 10, 2015 4:16 pm

Dreams of a Black Star

The universe is a beast.

It lives. It breathes. It doesn't think, but then it doesn't need to. The body is made from small stuff, from near-nothings. Atoms floating in a sea of crackling sparks. Pebbles adrift on tides of light and shoals of dust. Life in all its forms, each as fleeting and inconsequential as those before and after it. The mind is something great, something deep, something so black and limitless that anything - everything - drawn too close is sucked in, assimilated, forever made part of it.

Simple laws shape the beast. They are blind, eternal, begotten of the mind to govern the body. The largest cosmic structures are ruled by principles of mass and motion. The tiniest subatomic particles are slaves to charge and chance. These are the laws of the universe, and they are followed. Impossible to disobey. No sun complains about its death. No world or rock or star balks at the darkness as it is chewed apart and swallowed.

In this regard, life is the anomaly. Life is the problem. It can be woven from flesh, or circuitry, or thoughtful light, but in the end origins do not matter. Small, half-smart creatures have a fierce talent for denying the inevitable, for balking at and complaining about injustices that do not exist and consequences that should be borne in silence. They are aware of the beast and the laws by which it lives only in the barest, most ephemeral sense. They cannot grasp the truth of it, the one blind law that exists above and binds all others together.

The universe is a war.

Every moment of existence is defined by struggle and strife. Every thought and word and deed is a play - some are winners, some are losers. That is the point, and the way of things. Fight, win (or lose), and fight again. Over and over and over, until the war is over, there is but one final winner atop the bodies of a trillion-trillion losers, and there is nothing, be it heat or light or time, left to fight for.

Living things don't understand this. They avoid the war, remove themselves from the strife, even as it continually asserts itself as dominant among their natures. They shouldn't have to fight, they think. Survival and victory should be guaranteed, the birthright of all things.

This is the dream of small minds. The reason life is weak and fleeting. The albatross that must be cast off if one is to become strong.

The war is all there is. All there has ever been, all there will ever be. If any chance is to be stood, this simple and immutable truth must be recognized. Internalized. Made the core of oneself, and the impetus for one’s every thought and word and deed. Consciousness must be cast out, made to pierce the darkness and meditate in the silence of the heliopause, and gaze outward until the face of the beast reveals itself, until the abyss stares back.

Only in this can the truth be glimpsed.

The beast is the winner. Its mind created the law, its body enacts it, and when the war is over nothing of this will have changed. But these things can be subverted, if one will only see that they can.

Gaze upon the beast. Grip it. Shape it.

Make the law follow you. Make it yours.

End the war. Disregard the screams, for they are the sounds of victory everlasting.

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