Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

We are flames dancing to the memories of forgotten heroes. Everything is transitory. Everything. The stone walls of the citadel will become the dust of a thousand stars, and those stars will in turn wither and die, and our memories will be long forgotten wisps of smoke in the december breeze.
Why does it matter? Why does any of it matter?

If I drop this cup, it will shatter into a thousand pieces, never to be put back together again, the kinetic energy transferred into the heat-death of entropy. Yet with a choice, I can move the cup into the cupboard where it will sleep safe, the entropy transferred to my actions of raising the cup higher.

And in the morning, a woman will die crossing the street when she is hit by the car of an inattentive driver who is talking on her cell phone. The child that she would have had with the man that she would have met would have gone on to become the world's greatest neurosurgeon and develop neural implants that would enable those with spinal cord injuries to walk again, to lead normal lives.

But that path of existence is truncated. Another future history is made by a million million choices that happen in the now, in the illusion of the instance of time which fleets by in some imagined rush; here, then gone.

Yet things happen. Discoveries are made in simultinaety througout the world. Ideas are born into the collective conscious regardless of the vessel that shapes them into words and pictures. We are but small pieces of the machine that serves the information, cells that provide the transfer of ideas from the void and into the light. Our identities don't matter, our flesh doesn't matter, our existence doesn't matter except as it serves the information.

Information is energy. We take a cohesive form, packaged into quasi-stable states enough to transpire through a sense of consciousness and reality, when what we experience is a shadow, a reflection, an echo of what just was. We imagine the cohesion of instants as a continuous layer that we call "time", wrapped in mystery, wondering what the future brings.

There is no future. There is only now. Then is an illusion. Time only exists as a concept, as our corrupt and simple meat-minds can only process the energy states in small doses.

Imagine if you will that everything happens at once. Every possibility of everything that could ever have happened or will happen exists in a kind of continuum, like a big white room. Our existence is like an infinitely small thread that runs through that room, ekeing out a path through a single set of existences and determining what we percieve as reality.

If every person has their own thread, then each person has their own reality, their own existence. But not all of those threads have to diverge, not all of those threads have to cross, not all of those threads have to ever meet one another. Nor do they have to be coherent, all running in the same direction.

The Invisible World exists out there, just beyond our reach.
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