The Glory

for blake
who made grilled cheese for us
took the meaning of the universe
and put it in a sandwich
and dan
who did not
(as far as i know)

First, and always: Z = Z2 + C. From the beginning, from a time preceding the beginning, it flows before us. It was there when the universe was the size of a marble. It was there when nothing could possibly have perceived it, when perception itself was an impossibility. It was there, waiting for us.

Imagine the World  and for that matter, all possible worlds  as a finely sculpted block of clear crystal. A perfect cube, all dimensions equal and exact; length, depth, height, squared away. This image is, of course, an abstraction, but the imagination is perfectly suited to hold such a thing. There is no place for abstraction in the physical world, merely matter and energy, and no matter how far one may look, nothing of absolute perfection will be found.

Imagine, then, another abstraction. This one takes the form of a perfectly focused beam of light. Not a laser, or any such creation of the physical world; the focus of this beam is so tight that it seems to have no dimensions at all. It is only visible as the tiniest speck, the sort of thing that might emanate from an angels finger as it danced its everlasting, languid dance on the head of a pin. And were the minds eye a thing of flesh rather than dreams, one quick glance would blind and blacken it forever. Without length, depth or height, yet still existing on its own terms. Call this shining mote Time.

Watch the light as it inscribes an eternal path, neither slow nor fast, through the crystalline cube. No beginning is possible, and no ending could ever be foreseen. But although any observer must by necessity start in the middle, something akin to a pattern eventually comes forth. Not obeying established rules of symmetry, geometry or sanity, the movement of the light goes beyond these laws, which hold sway over the physical world alone. Imagination is formed of neither matter nor energy, and as such, transcends both of them. The further that the pattern that is not a pattern emerges, the more apparent are its beauty and complexity. There is only one possible name for the glorious tapestry of light, and this name is obvious: Reality.

The speck of brilliant light, being utterly without dimensions, is miniscule. The immaculate crystal cube, being a thing of dimensions alone, is vast. And yet, as the pattern unfolds further, it becomes apparent that eventually the path of the beam will touch each and every possible point within the cube. Were it otherwise, the infinite pattern that it creates would be no pattern, but only meaninglessness, randomness, disorder. It becomes apparent that the figure, indeed, is the only thing standing between the world and chaos.

Were there any imperfection within the crystal, no matter how small or slight, Time would eventually refract directly through it. And the second that it encountered this fault, it could shine in any direction at all.

Motionless in the city where nothing ever stopped moving, alone in the place that a billion billion souls called home.