Do they keep me here because I am dotty? Or is it because I know the secret? Or is it both? Yes, perhaps, for I both know the secret and am dotty enough to use it! What secret is that, you ask? Would you like to know it? To know how everything can be terminated, the asylum, the world, the universe, everything?
Today, a careless attendant gave me access to a writing tool and paper, and soon I shall use my secret, and that will be the end of it all—but not too soon! I’ll toss hints, here and there, of course, but ultimately I shall use my power—it’s only a matter of time!
Yes, time: before time began there was what? Think about it: if there was no time, then nothing passed when anything moved—things would still be where they started and where they finished and everywhere in between, right? Whatever moved would acquire extent, but there wasn’t any space to move in, so the extra extent wasn’t a problem—everything was stuck inside the geometry of a point, with no extents at all, not one, and it was getting crowded—wait a minute—how could that point exist?
Very easily, I think; it would just be sitting there unobtrusively, not moving or stepping on anyone’s toes, nice as you please, like a little dot, only infinitely smaller, until stuff starts moving around inside it, doing the gavotte or the tarantella and now there’s no place for the extending pieces to expand into; they must move outward and twist and now they are lines and soon the lines are surfaces, the surfaces solids, and the solids something else that I don’t know the word for—and because if you wait long enough, a possibility becomes a probability and is bound to occur, like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail, which wags, sending negative nothingness in one direction and positive nothingness in the other, and somehow, suddenly, what’s the matter?
Nothing is the matter, though it shouldn’t exist, nothing, the primordial what, has become matter and exploded faster than the tinkling of an ear, so suddenly that it doesn’t matter that matter can’t happen; impossibility is beside the point, if I had one, but, as you’ve probably noticed, I don’t have a single point, yet, not one, which is the same as many, not one is, isn’t it?
But beware: eftsoon feel I a point coming on, perhaps one invented by Dewey—I thought Truman had defeated him, but here he comes with his damnable decimal system and the point is that if the universe with an infinite number of dimensions can erupt from a single point, then by alchemical principles, it must end the same way, imploding back into a point, slowly at first, then faster and faster, all coming to a full stop or perhaps to one of Picasso’s blue devices? I happen to have one of those very devices in my pen and shall now wit out furt er hesit tion use it to suc the un vers b ck nto noth ngn ss, and eve yth ng wil ceas to exis e cept a s ngl p int, and th t w ll b th end⬤
© 2008 Jorge Kafkazar
CC BY-SA 3.0