Birth is the greatest miracle of creation.
For all we know, the achievement of self-awareness is something never before experienced in the history of the cosmos. We have become atoms that know they are atoms, matter that understands its place in the universe. We are capable of asking questions, questions about who we are, how we got here, and what is to become of us. But the most amazing thing of all is simply the fact that we, as a collective of conscious minds each acutely aware of themself, have achieved a state of being, that we think, and therefore, we exist. Our coming into this world is the most incredible thing this universe ever has and ever will witness for the rest of time.
But it’s not the end.
The advent of my life was an unfathomably huge miracle. What comes after is nothing.
We are running on a treadmill, trudging upwards on the “down” escalator. We are all flying on a plane of forever, destined never to reach our destination. In boarding this plane, I exhausted my capacity to achieve the remarkable. In comparison, I have no life left. I might as well be dead already. So, I have given up. I think I'll keep sitting back with my seat reclined, staring out the window until my mind fades into oblivion.
The other passengers insist that I am wrong.
“It’ll just be a couple of hours,” they tell me. “We’re almost there, and when we get there, you’ll find something worthwhile. Besides, there will always be other planes to board. There’s always another journey, always another horizon. You’ll see.”
They are lying.
I know that they are lying, because I’ve been on this plane for years.
They tell me I’m delusional. I don’t believe it.
The once beautiful sea of clouds is infinite and terrifying. The once glorious sun now feels intrusive and garish. The lifeless eyes and empty smiles of the flight attendants have become jarring and inescapable. I am trapped on this Boeing 747 aircraft for the rest of my life.
I cry sometimes, because I exist to get off this plane. I think that my purpose is not to ride it, but to leave it. The other passengers get excited by this, because they think that we’re all going somewhere real cool when we land. But I know the truth. We’re not getting off this plane until each one of us is dead. If that’s the case, then there is no purpose to be had. We exist to stop existing.
And, if I’m wrong, that’s the worst thing of all. That means I exist only to ride this plane off into that sea of clouds, that this is my purpose. I don’t want to do this forever.
We are now so high that I can see the curvature of the Earth.
Do you know the difference between countable and uncountable infinity?
Take a moment with me to picture two different sets of numbers – the first contains every real integer, every negative number and every positive number. I think you’ll find it easy to agree that this set goes on forever, in both directions. You can start at one, and never reach the end. Believe me, I tried. One, two, three . . . ten quadrillion, four-hundred sixty-one trillion, eight-hundred seventy billion, two-hundred ninety-four million, nine-hundred eighty-two thousand, one-hundred forty-four. I gave up there, but you can keep going. That’s countable infinity. It goes on forever, and yet it’s quantifiable. You can’t comprehend it all, but you can try, and most importantly, you can count it. There exists a given set of clearly definable points that make up the infinite. This is how most people, I think, tend to regard their own experience of time. Time is, as many would have it, an infinite collection of moments, and our individual experience of each separate moment is what we call the present.
I have determined that this is not the case.
You see, there’s also this thing called “uncountable infinity,” which is unfathomably larger and more terrifying.
Take a second set of numbers, but this time include every real number, whole or otherwise. You can divide a number forever, meaning that you can’t even begin to count a set like this one. I invite you to try. Try and find the first positive number greater than zero. You can’t. 0.1? No. 0.001? No. 0.0000000000000000000001? You can go further. And that’s how time works. The present does not exist. Time is constantly shifting between infinitely small points on this unquantifiable number line, points that, for all intents and purposes, are not real.
On the plane, all these moments blend into one.
The past, present, and future exist together, each playing their part in the most monotonous symphony ever written. They tell me to live in the present. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. But I don’t believe in the present. Tell me, what am I supposed to do now?
When the plane lands, I’ll have no choice but to depart to another world. And they’ll probably mourn my loss. Maybe they’ll bury my body, or maybe they’ll give my organs to someone who wants to stay on the plane a little longer. But what happens to the miracle? Where does it go? Does it just disappear to nothingness? Is death like going to sleep forever? Or is there something waiting for me when I get off this plane?
Or, the most terrifying prospect of all – what if I never leave?
For all we know, the achievement of self-awareness is something never before experienced in the history of the cosmos. We have become atoms that know they are atoms, matter that understands its place in the universe. We are capable of asking questions, questions about who we are, how we got here, and what is to become of us. But the most amazing thing of all is simply the fact that we, as a collective of conscious minds each acutely aware of themself, have achieved a state of being, that we think, and therefore, we exist. Our coming into this world is the most incredible thing this universe ever has and ever will witness for the rest of time.
But it’s not the end.
The advent of my life was an unfathomably huge miracle. What comes after is nothing.
We are running on a treadmill, trudging upwards on the “down” escalator. We are all flying on a plane of forever, destined never to reach our destination. In boarding this plane, I exhausted my capacity to achieve the remarkable. In comparison, I have no life left. I might as well be dead already. So, I have given up. I think I'll keep sitting back with my seat reclined, staring out the window until my mind fades into oblivion.
The other passengers insist that I am wrong.
“It’ll just be a couple of hours,” they tell me. “We’re almost there, and when we get there, you’ll find something worthwhile. Besides, there will always be other planes to board. There’s always another journey, always another horizon. You’ll see.”
They are lying.
I know that they are lying, because I’ve been on this plane for years.
They tell me I’m delusional. I don’t believe it.
The once beautiful sea of clouds is infinite and terrifying. The once glorious sun now feels intrusive and garish. The lifeless eyes and empty smiles of the flight attendants have become jarring and inescapable. I am trapped on this Boeing 747 aircraft for the rest of my life.
I cry sometimes, because I exist to get off this plane. I think that my purpose is not to ride it, but to leave it. The other passengers get excited by this, because they think that we’re all going somewhere real cool when we land. But I know the truth. We’re not getting off this plane until each one of us is dead. If that’s the case, then there is no purpose to be had. We exist to stop existing.
And, if I’m wrong, that’s the worst thing of all. That means I exist only to ride this plane off into that sea of clouds, that this is my purpose. I don’t want to do this forever.
We are now so high that I can see the curvature of the Earth.
Do you know the difference between countable and uncountable infinity?
Take a moment with me to picture two different sets of numbers – the first contains every real integer, every negative number and every positive number. I think you’ll find it easy to agree that this set goes on forever, in both directions. You can start at one, and never reach the end. Believe me, I tried. One, two, three . . . ten quadrillion, four-hundred sixty-one trillion, eight-hundred seventy billion, two-hundred ninety-four million, nine-hundred eighty-two thousand, one-hundred forty-four. I gave up there, but you can keep going. That’s countable infinity. It goes on forever, and yet it’s quantifiable. You can’t comprehend it all, but you can try, and most importantly, you can count it. There exists a given set of clearly definable points that make up the infinite. This is how most people, I think, tend to regard their own experience of time. Time is, as many would have it, an infinite collection of moments, and our individual experience of each separate moment is what we call the present.
I have determined that this is not the case.
You see, there’s also this thing called “uncountable infinity,” which is unfathomably larger and more terrifying.
Take a second set of numbers, but this time include every real number, whole or otherwise. You can divide a number forever, meaning that you can’t even begin to count a set like this one. I invite you to try. Try and find the first positive number greater than zero. You can’t. 0.1? No. 0.001? No. 0.0000000000000000000001? You can go further. And that’s how time works. The present does not exist. Time is constantly shifting between infinitely small points on this unquantifiable number line, points that, for all intents and purposes, are not real.
On the plane, all these moments blend into one.
The past, present, and future exist together, each playing their part in the most monotonous symphony ever written. They tell me to live in the present. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. Live in the present, and you’ll be happy. But I don’t believe in the present. Tell me, what am I supposed to do now?
When the plane lands, I’ll have no choice but to depart to another world. And they’ll probably mourn my loss. Maybe they’ll bury my body, or maybe they’ll give my organs to someone who wants to stay on the plane a little longer. But what happens to the miracle? Where does it go? Does it just disappear to nothingness? Is death like going to sleep forever? Or is there something waiting for me when I get off this plane?
Or, the most terrifying prospect of all – what if I never leave?
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.