In the beginning there was darkness, emptiness, vacuum between the stars and the worlds that
surround them. Unearthly beauty, frightening grandeur, this frigid black womb where we abide.
No living being can cross the unimaginable distances, nor bridge the blackness stretching forever,
and ever, and ever. Punctuated here and there by infrequent brilliance of enormous size, stars
glisten and throb with vitality, yet dwarfed by the immensity of nothingness surrounding all. These
incandescent explosions of energy and matter, moving lonely and alone, sometimes accompanied
by a retinue of lifeless satellites, wander, orbiting 'til the end of time.
At times, one incandescence meets another in an explosion rocking the fabric in their quadrant of
space, or, with age, it may burst into an explosive force consuming not cities, not continents, but
all the worlds revolving 'round. Perhaps, on a few of these planets, worlds which live and die in
macrocosm, even as we live and die in miniature, a crop of grass, a bird, a fish, an animal running
wild and free, and rarest yet, a sentient creature. Life, born to die, born to be consumed by other
life, or in the end, to be swallowed up when their sun dies.
And from out of this loneliness, this vast emptiness, the spark of intelligent life cries out, angry
and in a loud voice, "Why? Why are we here?" Universes annihilate universes, worlds crush
worlds, objects in empty space crash into others of their kind, and animals, when they exist at all,
consume other living things to insure their own survival; as do we, who claim to rule and have
dominion over all the earth. "Why?" we bellow and roar, our hearts beating wildly in fear and
trepidation. "Why are we here?" While winds of space blow silently across the barren heavens,
our cry reaching no ear, retrieves no answer. Yet, some small voices, desperately needing
answers to assuage their terror, pipes out, "There is design. We are loved," and then, quieter still,
"Aren't we?"
If there is design, a creator of this insanity, then he is surely mad, or surely evil. A universe of
chaos, pain, destruction, and from those who fear the most, thus believe the most, spring forth the
most outrage. Raping, torturing, massacring, annihilating, anything and everyone that denies their
consolation. They dare not see, they dare not hear, the eternal mystery must not be distinguished,
the thought extinguished, lest their fright filled nightmare be acknowledged; we are alone in all
the cosmos, pitiful little creatures who live and die, never to rise again. Sinners condemned to hell
with no parole and no ability to comprehend, there is no, "Why?" Groveling before an apathetic
universe, we supplicate for intercession, creating from the void an improbable god to make sense
of an incomprehensible universe.
Detached and dispassionate, the heavens never notice our rage, the anger from this pale ungrateful
shadow who granted a brief life, laments, screaming, "It's not enough!" Eons passed, billions of
years and more, wherein no life crawled from the raging furnace, and a hundred million more
before any single living intellect was born upon our world, yet in ignorance and dread, each
human entity believes the universe, breathing in and out, pulses with love for them, and will grant
them life forever; and so with fevered fantasy, creates a macrocosm designed by celestial majesty
to cater to their eternal desire.
How can we, poor mortal creatures, terrified animals, concede our agony and foreboding
emanates from avarice, selfishness, unsatisfied desire, and grasping for ever more? Neither earth,
nor heaven, nor sun-strewn universe are hostile, nor obliging, and all we apprehend comes
bubbling up, product of our own star-crossed confabulation. Can we but adjust our vision, look
within our hearts, reach out in gratitude for what we have, exult in the phenomenon of our brief
consciousness; how much greater mystery, awe, and fulfilment, to know that we have lived and
living, have had it all. With all of eternity spread behind the moment of our birth and stretching
beyond the second of our death, are we still not blessed? Have we not had our small place,
embracing and comforting, forevermore? Have we not been a part of that magnificent tapestry?
Is it not self-centered and demeaning, belittling, to thirst for more, betrayal of that greatness of
which we are but a small part? Can we not be satisfied with what is? We can, we must, we shall;
and with head held high, proudly celebrating our momentary season, deny those ephemeral gods
who promise everything, deliver nothing, and steal away the sand from the hourglasses of our
lives. It is in this wise, we overcome the gods, dismiss them, as we replace them with something
far more formidable and constant ... ourselves.
