Tower of Brahma. 62f. Over & Over (edit)

5/24/10

I dove deeper into the system. The web of illusion that these overgrown unborn babies all pretended was reality. They changed the channels on each other, watching private lives that were lies, wish-fulfillment imaginings of personal experience...no more than dramatic reenactments.

There was a hierarchy. A tower to climb. Each flabby, sleeping slob brought me closer to the reason this humanity holdout was able to even exist. How could it keep going? What held it together? Solar powered panels, inter-connectivity, hive mindless entertainment machine.

Why not just let go?

There were scientists, mixed among philosophers, those of us that had answers, or at least a study guide, a rule-book, that made sense of the chaotic cauldron we were birthed in. A step by step reason formula that formed structure around the formless void. They were plugged into a meditative state, pumping knowledge into recording devices, free to ponder and pontificate.

There were theologians. No actual men or women of faith, but historians and scholars, briefed on the great beyond. They too processed bits of data, translated from ancient alphabets, the musings of early mankind. The bold truths that came over told them everything that they already felt.

Fictioneers, fictionauts, falsehood mythmakers, the greatest living writers, story structure specialists, all hammering out a plot that was so precise, they believed it could puncture the essence of all dimensions. This was the armory, letters lined in rows, grouped in paragraphs, given power and purpose.

Destroy the entire thing. Everything. The reality of Earth. The concept of reality. The idea of Heaven and Hell, the Devil, and God itself: these would all die, stuck and bleeding across the higher realm. And if we were lucky, that too would burst apart and be obliterated, and beyond.

Devout disciples drilling into the ether, whipping together adventures, played out before them, for them, by them. Self-satisfying action, the dramas each sprouting a new direction, inspiring each creator to fine tune and edit. There had to be one last story to tell. A final epic where each word died as you read it, a book that evaporates upon absorption of even just one reader.

It must be at the end of this race. For infinity was merely a word for the endless unknown, a word and idea created by man, so therefore irrevocably flawed. There was a cliff, known reality was flat, an edge to carry what was left towards, to jump off of. The bliss of non-existence.

Surely that was better than suffering eternally.