The Journey
There was no sensation of movement, and negligible consciousness, like that of a rock. That is, no time. For a very long time.
But if time were to come, like rain in the desert, consciousness would follow like a germinating seed. Or maybe the other way around.
The turning point was a gentle suggestion of acceleration, until it couldn’t be ignored—characteristic of things as they age—which created the traction that breeds awareness—like the incremental warming of water in the spring to fish who feel it not as warmth but as provocation—not all at once but in intimations, maybe anticipation, maybe memory.
In the case at hand, a sensation of falling.
The void took on dimensions. Oblivion developed ambition.
That is to say, the beginning of the story. Not of existence, not of time, themselves—just of the story.
The story of a long fall toward something distant and incomprehensible—perhaps that faint point of light far below.
Life follows a reason to live.
Of course there would be obstacles along the way—monsters in the void that only chance could prevent a collision with. Others not directly in its path whose influence would divert it from its trajectory.
It didn’t know, imagine, or remember if it was knowing, imagining, or remembering this.
It could look back now into the blankness of its long calcified past—back to some mythical catastrophe lingering in its bedrock as a primal vibration. Its Big Bang. Was that what it would call God, or the point of light it still more felt than saw, growing slowly bigger and separating itself from all the others, far, far below?
It just depended on where in the story it was. For now, there seemed only the increasing sense of acceleration, as the point of light grew steadily brighter. More insistent. Pulling everything to know itself.
Is God origin or destiny? And can a God that is not known be?
And our accelerating, awakening pilgrim, what could it know about the eyes on a random rock down below, or the calculations that would stand in for knowing it?
How could it know, except through interaction, that everything is known through interaction?
* *.*
The tedium of—no mistaking it now—the journey began to tremble with a sense of urgency. Everything about the downward plunge was going up—speeding up, heating up—and most wondrous of all—lighting up. The point of light had become a disc, freely sharing its light and warmth, and it was thrilling.
The question of whether the light was good or evil, to be loved or feared, had lost its relevance as all sensations converged into the compulsion to go toward it. It could see now that it would miss all the monsters, unaware of being watched, being known. Knowing only the rich promise of arrival. Of consummation. Nothing could deter it.
These were the days of its glory.
Falling, falling—faster, brighter, hotter—surrendering to the ecstasy, becoming one with the light. The love.
Then, just as the moment of apotheosis was at hand, there came a sensation like a father swinging a child by its arms, and after a maelstrom of confusion, it knew it was moving no longer toward, but away from the light—still glorious—but a glorious entrance and a glorious exit are not the same.
They are opposites and their trajectories mirror images.
The disc was shrinking now, the heat and light fading, the love moving into the dim register of memory.
Maybe its origin and destiny were one. Maybe it knew this, maybe just suspected it, along with something like a long, decaying final thought: gratitude that it had been allowed to know itself.
And even more, would now be allowed to forget itself.
Again.
September 23, 2022