at the end of the universe

I is not what me thinks it is i am

Er...

Baffling, isn't it!

Gobbledygook, if you ask me.

Precisely, which only goes to show

Huh?

Which only goes to show

[Waiting patiently... oh so patiently]

Which only goes to show

It does..?

Yes.

Er... what?

Huh?

What does it go to show?

Sorry, I seem to have lost track of the conversation.

Hardly surprising really, 

Oh yes, that. So you figured it out in the end?

Figured what out?

Precisely.

Yes, I suppose i did... [Looking round expansively at me knows not what.]

And them? [Wafting an arm at the general public]

I hardly know what to say. You'll have to ask them yourself.

Do you think I may?

I don't see why not.

I feel rather shy.

Do you?

Yes.

Hardly consistent with I not being what me thinks it is i am, is it?

Now that you mention it, no, you’re right, not at all consistent – in fact, downright inconsistent.

So go ahead, ask ‘em.

I've a good mind to do precisely that.

Well...

Yes?

What are you waiting for?

Nothing whatsoever.

In that case, what is stopping you?

Nothing whatsoever.

The very same?

In all likelihood, yes, though for certain i cannot say.

And this “nothing whatsoever” so actively directing your affairs – how do you actually recognise it when it...

When it what?

When it... [grasping strawfully]     me knows not what.

Bingo!

A trap door opens beneath and the two of them fall through into I is definitely not what me thinks it is i am, in the process losing all recognisable sense of being two, or them, or anything else for that matter, recognisable.

Not a word is spoken, I not being what me thinks it is I am, and yet each and every reader is addressed directly, intentionally, discernibly, from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, and most of them, you included, do everything possible to maintain the illusion that nothing has been said or heard, except for you – no, not you – you, there, yes you – you know who you are, don’t you – and one, one being addressed is enough, is it not – one being all, all being one – i not being what me thinks it is i am... and the rest, as they say, is history.

History. Once upon a time there was a tale that so engrossed the single mind, the mind of All, the One, that it began to multiply its I am in order to experience the tale from different perspectives within, from the thick of things.

Of course the I am’s all knew that they were essentially pretending to be separate entities, but as consummate actors and artists they were not going to let on that it was all an elaborate charade, besides, each I am had its very own me thinks stream of individuated thoughts to strengthen and accentuate the uniqueness of what it was experiencing. Me thinks thou art an arrant knave said one thought-y-stream. Me thinks thou had better curb thy tongue, another before I cudgel thee into oblivion. Me was able to think whatever best fitted the logic of the moment without reference to what was I am universally true, and this worked wonders for the story’s growth and development. History was able to go far beyond the bounds of thus it is, thus i am-ness, into a fantastical realm of me thinkitude and me thingliness, in which the logic of what me thinks, no matter what, was able to establish itself as fact, was able to build castles, towns, systems, webs of ideas, none of which needed to i am, none of which needed to it is, all of which could exist and flourish if it proved its validity, its viability by simply usurping and defeating other castles, towns, systems or webs of ideas. May the strongest survive, for the strongest, surely, had to be the fittest, the best, the closest to that which simply, truly is I am ‘n All.

So here we are, fantastically far advanced down these logical chains of reasoning, if a supercedes b, then a it is I am ‘n All, and who can fault the irreproachable logic of deductionism ad infinitum, or Darwinism for that matter: the engine, the driver of story into ever more abstruse, ever more exotic, ever more i am-less versions, nay, realms of historia? What is there to fault? True, wars have been fought, wives killed by jealous husbands, or vice versa, not to mention famines, droughts and pestilence needlessly endured, but history has been made, history has been spun, has been woven from the endless stream of what me thinks... or what me thinks I am... or

Until

Er...

Yes Zarina?

Have you finished yet?

Finished? Er... almost.

It's just, well, I'm not really a big fan of history. In fact, it gives me a headache.

Ah... I was just going to wrap it all up with a devastating deus ex machina finale.

The only trouble is no one’s listening. It's not exactly easy reading, is it?

Absolutely.

So what's the point?

No point. None whatsoever, but you're wrong about no one listening.

No, i can see the livestream data. Zero. Nada.

Tee hee, but she’s watching incognito, isn't she.

Who, Dorothy?

Dorothy? No, not Dorothy. Why would she be watching this?

Then who?

The one who slipped through the gap existentially.

Er...

The one who is a living being like the rest of you, but who’s ready to seeee the logical impossibility of matter, of things and the whole universe, suddenly, without warning.

And? What then?

What when?

Then? When she sees?

Who?

Her.

Huh?

Of for Pete’s sake Merry...

...

Merry...

...

Merry...

 

The sound of a penny dropping somewhere on the far side of the universe in a galaxy facing imminent destruction. Kerchink.

Zarina? You ok?

I...

Yes?

I...

Er

I think

You do?

No, me thinks

It does?

Yes, that I...

Say no more Zarina. I can see. Observe, the lights going out.

Omg, no

Zarina sees what appears to be the entire universe, billions of stars before her eyes, twinkling merrily in the “boundlessness of space”, or thus the story goes, sensing or feeling the dichotomy, the as above so below-ness as each and every star up there extinguishes itself in a bewilderingly rapid cascade of disindividuation – leaving only one, the All, and a rather ridiculous looney tunes “that's all folks” note scrawled across the gaping blackness of unfullness.

In a roadside café somewhere in a benighted loop of semi-conductive consciousness...

None of it stuck? None of it was ultimately real? None?

Apparently not.

Then what was the point?

Good question. Wait a minute or two. Let's see if she reboots...

Of course measuring time from the nullification of all matter, including space, is a rather tricky business so i can't guarantee that this “moment or two” was in fact less than a billion years or more, but if you'd cut me a little slack and accept that time is, in fact, infinitely elastic, then here we are... a minute and seventeen seconds later...

Tinkle tinkle

Do you hear that Merry?

A rhetorical question without a doubt, as Merry and Zarina are both viscerally experiencing the electrical circuit of space, time and everything rebooting, with every fibre of their not-what-y-ness.

Wowsers!

Feels good, dunnit!

You're telling me.

Whereas before, the entire universe had been jerry-rigged, wired to work, but to work with massive in-built resistance, to generate a guaranteed stream of history, this time round it’s the opposite, wired to go, wired to fly, to hum, to zing, in short, nature at its best, effortlessly surpassing the best laid plans of mice-y men, hum dum de dum, dum...

So the end of the universe was a temporary event, it would appear?

Yes and no. Just watch all those hopelessly anachronistic structures from historia, packed with endlessly needless complexity... watch them now imploding under the weight of their gargantuan redundancy. And yes, me thinks the world you know and love, the world that was fixed in obsessive compulsive load bearing, is blinking on and off, while an other version now repackages all the data ineffably, as is.

So there’ll be no more history?

No more honey? Pooh sighs wistfully. Never say never.

But what a waste! So much pain and hardship.

On the contrary, it was vital to the infinite spark of creation. Nothing is ever, ultimately, wasted.

But, it’s all gone.

Not so. History is a song, a record, a wavey line, whatever you want it to be, but methinks nothing matters, no less than All, that nothing is, either created or destroyed, that...

Like I said Merry, too much yabbidy yab. I want to test out this new circuitry. Something tells me that we’re going to have a lot of fun playing with the inertials, the memories of what historia used to be. I can feel ‘em begging to be explored, to be twanged like balalaika strings.

Yikes! A world of trouble in the making.

But that, dear reader, is where you now have to return to your own particular pocket of inertial space, and decide whether you’re ready to join Zarina on the other side of what, me thinks, is not, unless i be much mistaken, universe, hum dum de, or equally a bear floating for honey, disguised as a cloud, hoping to fool them mighty suspicious bees, heroically.

Bzzz! Pop!

 

 

0=1 

if all be said and done