Short version(For low attention span readers, you know who you are):
So this is an idea which means what would one think if he were to consider that his life isn’t significant as he thought.
To put it simply, the ‘Big Bang’ so to speak which started the entirety of life as we know it, what if this occurrence was one of many? The beginning which meant the start of existence, wasn’t the first and only start- but rather only the latest in a long occurrence of destructive explosions and life creative explosions.
How would you feel if you were just the six billionth rendition of ‘intelligent life’? Only one in a infinite series of birth, destruction and rebirth. If you knew this? How would it make you feel about your life?
In the perspective that this will end, be erased and an entirely new existence, a wholly new universe and cosmos itself will begin in its place? Knowing we are but speck in existence already, how much more so insignificant would you feel knowing that you live in an essentially etch-a-sketch existence?
Long Version (Told as if this were Reality)
Think of the quiet, a time where all around is but silence, where all is simply swallowed up by the dark.
There are a couple flickers of sound, then silence, more darkness, then BOOM something starts!
An explosion erupts and light spreads out in waves reaching out to the horizons of the darkness. Life has begun to become deposited amidst the stars . . .
Do you think humans special? That we’ve ascended beyond? Created for ourselves a new world by ways of which this Earth has never seen? You are correct, not in the part of us being special- in fact, this has all been done before and the truth is that there’s too many times to count. It’s not whether we’ve been alone in the universe this entire time, but rather something so more important:
Whether we have been the first ever of life like ours in the infinity of everything.
Could we be just remolded materials left off from what remains left of an entire different existence before our own? Before present time, prehistoric time, and the theory of time itself? What if there had existed a time before the beginning, and that particular time had come to an end, lending itself to the beginning of a completely new ‘time’- our time?
The bang which caused the heating and mixture of every particle that we now see before us and call some-thing, what was before it – and what if there was a time which had come to an end preceding that very explosion of life?
How many eons could have passed since a time full of intelligent life like ourselves, those who foresaw their own eventual and inevitable end, like us existed? With that, what about those before even them?
Could we simply be a repetitive series of events doomed to begin, and end over, and over without ceasing in a perpetual series for beyond infinity? Are we really nothing but inevitable creation, and destruction simply because of simple the cause and effect of cosmic mechanics?
We call ourselves human-beings. We’ve labeled ourselves intelligent- even called ourselves the most intelligent life on this planet.
We’ve called ourselves first, and innovators of very time and space. We have called ourselves many things, to which we are the very bias judges of. Yet, what are we really?
We’re but one of a long cycle of intelligent living beings.
We live in but one version of a universe, a cosmos– the latest version, but not the first by far. In fact, there have been many universes, countless amounts of this very universe, the very one we take residence in- so don’t be mistaken.
We’re not the original, the god or gods we worship were not the original stories- they aren’t even the first interpretations of these gods, only our personal versions.
What if we aren’t as unique as we think? Simply a sketch on a canvas of what was previously erased, again, and again, and once more for better measure.
The explosion which started it all is one in a long list of those same explosions the ones which in the very same way ignited the flames of destruction, then rebirth all over again.
We’re but hot magma settled into mobile stone put together, and named life by our very own lips. Our life itself just the overbearing song playing over physical events. We aren’t even who we think we are. Just remaining and recycled data which only a small hint of something we call “ourselves” just as so many had thought before this.
We’re good at these things we do, we’re so smart in the ways we are, able to figure complexities of the stars because we aren’t the first. The data of every one, every ‘thing’ before us each remains in the vibrating current which is the life-ethereal over the matter. Our thoughts have been thought countless times before, our inventions created infinite times before, everything we hold as our own is nothing more than recollection of our particle make-up. Our consciousness part of a punch-bowl which has had every rendition add to its flavor, just a little more and more each time.
We aren’t special, rather the complete antithesis of it. Our creative story not unique, but instead just an inevitability of circumstance. We are the rise on a wave of highs and lows.
What does it mean to you to know your not special? You’re not original, new or different?
Does it make a difference to know that you haven’t thought your own ideas, but rather you simply remember more clearly a memory of that same thought of the past?
We’re all the same as what has been before us, and those before them. All thinking that they were the original, that we’re special and the birth of a new age of new ideas- how laughably in-congruent.
What are we then? What shall we do knowing our ideas and personalities are not our own, that we’ve just been reincarnating versions of the same particles over and over again?
Is there nothing to us at all? Nothing which can be done?
How about our death? Is there even death at all, or is it just the reach of our understanding? Could this ‘death’ rather simply be us going back to the universe, mixing with the rest of it, and waiting for the destruction so that we may become liquid and before long stir into the others to be made to become life in the next big explosion?
Is death death? Is life life? Is reality objective, or just simply all an illusion which then becomes truth? Is truth in our eyes worth being called truth at all?
Wake up to your reality, wake up to your fallacy of self. Wake up and realize what our predecessors reluctantly had to realize countless times before. The last one to live has brought the thoughts to the first one to be. The Omega, to the Alpha – the whisper to Adam.
You are not original. You’re simply the current version of an expression which has been being expressed and pulled apart since the cosmos was first darkened.
What does that cause you to think about your personal expression, the very things you take self pride in? The stolen thoughts of previous intelligent life, which you’re unknowingly parading as your own?
Are we all frauds thinking our selves innovators? Other than personal experiences, what do you really have to call wholly your own?
Your only a copy, a clone, barely with an original thought only a recollection from the soup of existence contributed to by our previous versions.
What is there to do? Go to work? Become successful? What is success, and where does it take us?
What is life and how have we lived? Have we done so in a way never done before, if this even matters to you at all?
What of this end? What does it bring? Will it ever stop, will we ever learn the meaning? Will we every unlock the key, tearing apart this abominable cycle once and for all?
Take some time to think about what you are, and further what it means to your life and how you choose to live it waking up tomorrow.
Maybe this eases some pressure off of you, or maybe it makes your head feel to burst. We’re all different in our own eyes, but the same in countless ways.
We’re all but one, and a one which was always the same.
Whatever your conclusion, just remember. Whatever you decide –
that you were not the first to come to that conclusion, and in a new tomorrow the next one will come to the very same.
We are but dots in the span of both space, and time yet somehow think that we are our own.