Things have been said about what might have been before this universe erupted into existence. Even if those notions can only give hypothetical glimpses into netherworld undergarments. Still it might be worthwhile to venture a guess. If curiosity can cause wonder to pause over the landscape of how an idiosyncratic world might arise. Perhaps because taking a crack at it could provide a clue for why there's anything at all. That might help predict how things do as they do. Since if theory can match the way things happen it could provide a window thrown open to distant horizons. Doesn't mean the proposed theory is necessarily true. If it works why not use it until it doesn't. Because when it illuminates it may show a way to proceed. Perhaps under the right kind of nonsense banner to see what, if anything, transpires. So what was before the big bang? Assuming it was the void of emptiness that shake loose from pockets of a question hung upside-down? Could emptiness be knowingly experienced? If someone says they've experienced going in and out of the void what might be said? Perhaps report back the void was timeless, spaceless, and formless. Would that be saying anything about the void? Sounds to be more about what the void isn't. Maybe its then a pure, tranquil, whole, balanced, undifferentiated land of oneness one? That somehow got disturbed. Triggering a big bang universe in all its forever fleeting partially flawed glory. Exploded kaboom on the scene knock-you're-socks-off cosmic orgasm ah-ha style. Sounds like a hypothetical promising enough. Even if defining the void by what it isn't on the one hand. While being consciously conscious of going beyond consciousness on the other. Going with the latter what might a momentary lapse in the stream of consciousness be like? As if to pop in and out of consciousness able to retain what was on the other side. Would it be like a spliced movie with missing frames? With no time duration between those missing frames. Like one continuous fleeting flow with jolting jump. Punctuated with an uncomfortable something went missing. If so it might be tempting to say the missing frames was a spaceless, timeless, formless interruption in the ordinary stream of consciousness. To cause jaw drop silent tongue coiled in speculative wonder. Like there was this there-there there. So surely something must exist between those missing frames. What if there-there supposedly there wasn't there-there at all? Like there was nothing between the between. No void, no emptiness, no ultimate other, no undefinable whatever - nada. If so, would it mean this very moment is still the same moment the big bang banged? Assuming there couldn't be more than one moment always here. Instantaneously being continually birthed from an isn't that isn't, never was, won't ever be. Making the universe an egg laid from no-thing's thingy womb. If so, this moment is the really real deal. With no void of emptiness to have its back. Were real forms move in real time through real space. In a blue sky that's truly blue.
If
Hypothetical: Characterized by, or of the nature of, an hypothesis; conditional; assumed without proof, for the purpose of reasoning and deducing proof, or of accounting for some fact or phenomenon. Websters What if it was possible to make if statements as if they were is statements? Why? What if something gets defined based on supposedly what its true nature is so there's no way to disprove it? Would it be like casting the issue in the quicksand of limbo? Perpetually stuck going nowhere forever. Since there'd also be no way to prove it. Would that quandary leave only one option open? Everyone would need to agree to pretend something is this way or that to keep the stone rolling. Making disagreement vanish like a rising teakettle steam whistle. Blown truth ear ready as self-evidently known. Like a verdict baptized in River Styx netherworld's vested interest of meaningful existence. As the agreed upon officially sacred definition for the way things are if not should be. To keep the hub of all well-greased for the fly wheel of everyday affairs spin properly. Since then it wouldn't be what something really is that counts. It'd be what everyone without question assumes it is at best. That brought the wonder child's wander bedtime home to rest. Suppose such agreed upon definitions came with an unsuspected price tag. Paid for like tax at the check-out counter of universal acceptance. Unnoticed as silently factored in when the bill comes due. Tiny squint eye invoice voice: What's the meaning of life? What's the true nature of reality? Who am I? Why do things happen the way they do? Am I here for what reason? Questions that aren't supposed to surface as cash to value transactions to bank. Recalling why bother if none really know. Keeping the calm status quo safety deposit box securely locked. Could it really be-buy-golly-gosh because nobody knew who hid the key? Maybe Plato had it No, Aristotle hid it Come on, it was Shakespeare I know the Buddha is the one Not because they didn't have the smarts. They surely must. What if the key went missing because nobody had it? Since it was a was that never was. It might still be possible to dream reams of schemes? Like a little if fertilizer might cause a dead branch to flower fiction in chilly hilly winter. Since if nothing can be known it still might be possible to hobble down the yellow brick road on wobbly stilts. As a cause to pause dope ingested hope for finding out what, if anything, might transpire. As hypotheticals high heel dressed-up for jaw dropping prime-time selfie truth shoots. Could it really be a magic carpet Forbidden City flyover looking down on the tallest high rise edifice, "What if that means this?" A sneak peek through cracked earthquake historic slam-dunk opaque truth walls. Dropping head turning red tread barren pants of fact while unbuttoning blue holy hole paisley shirt faith. Watching with sideways glance "is" nuggets of unquestioned wisdom dissolve in an if acid vat of corrosive trouble bubbles. Sipping cauldron lip composition of decompose recompose hot chocolate brew. Birthed from no clue's pregnant womb of summarized consumption. If fiction could become fine art's right nonsense savored. Commentary: “Book of Revelation” says Christ has the keys of hell and death.
Cracked jonnie
