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The cosmos is not only within us -- it is us. The self-awareness we possess is like two mirrors facing each other, one the force and the other its reflection, begetting an infinite tunnel of self-reference of which the very head that is trying to see down it gets in the way. Baffling and absurd, we find ourselves, to quote Saul Williams, "participants in a ritual older than our collective memory," a seamless stream of energy attempting, in an eddying moment of self-realization, to find out what the flying hell is going on.

"Why?", however, is a question that grasps for intent, for a fundamental reason. It's impossible to answer because in the context of reality itself, rather than elements within reality, there will always be another potential "why?" until we find ourselves staring the void in its faceless face, its answerlessness, its stoic silence, the only answer.

Though we also find ourselves imbued with stubborn genes. We march on, a logical and meticulous methodological tool in tow that reveals to us practical knowledge, growing our potential to exist in relative comfort while we continue to stare up at the sky in a wonder that is simultaneously torturous and cathartic; attempting to reconcile our compulsion for ultimate meaning with the realization that not only is it likely that it doesn't exist, but if it did, it would be a knowledge that would require a frame of reference above and beyond that which we are capable of having by being something fundamentally embedded within it all to begin with. We wouldn't recognize the answer, and if we did, we probably wouldn't like it. We'd wonder why it wasn't something else instead, dissatisfied with the absolutism. So we gradually become okay with the point being precisely the pointlessness.

After all, doesn't silence define the sound? The universe is at play for play's sake. In its trial and error, sometimes it gets hurt, but out of these infinite dice rolls of chaos, potential, and probability, magical spurts of mirthful, ineffable order do manifest.

The void fills itself because it has to. It was never a void. In order for it to have ever been a void, there would have needed to be an infinitude to define it as such. In being defined by what it is not, each is the other, and the endlessly inevitable colors between, linking nothingness to the pure implication of the infinite possibility it represents.

Is it worth it?
I think so.
We take our highs
with the price of our lows.
Our ultimate solace:
that death defines growth.

The troughs and the crests,
as we surely know,
will return to the flatline
from which they were shown.
This is an experience
that we will not know.
We exist for the now,
and the ripples we'll sow.
))) - (((
((( + )))

Inspired by a rewatching of this wonderful song in a particularly sentimental context: [link]
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Submitted on
April 25, 2012
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