At t=0, the canvas of existence was unmarred an expanse untouched and sprawling, awaiting the genesis stroke of creation. It was the twilight of all that would unfurl, a juncture beyond junctures where each atom and every latent possibility sprung forth from a nucleus of boundless density, a singularity that could no longer constrain its burgeoning potential.
Within this crucible of genesis the kernels of every celestial sphere, of each planet, and of all life were scattered. The grand tapestry commenced its intricate weave shepherded by an unseen hand threading the narrative of cosmos through the warp and weft of spacetime. Here was birthed the script, the codex of existence where free will appeared naught but an illusion, a fable already scribed yet to be lived by its unwitting cast.
The portrait that grew rapidly from the primordial tumult was a symphony of cosmic scale, each heavenly entity and living being a note in the prelude to a everlasting orchestration. The figures in the oil revealed in the textured swathes of the brush and the audacious swipes of the palette knife assumed their fated roles upon the stage of the universe. Some bore human guise, their gazes laden with enquiry, hearts brimming with yearning, yet blindly enacting the verses penned at t=0. Others were of stranger cloth, beings whose forms and intents melded into the backdrop of the tableau as vital as the emptiness that beckoned all into its silent fold.
Among the swirls and currents of pigment the architectural forms rose and ebbed, akin to the civilisations they signified—each convinced of its endurance, blind to the truth that their ascents and declines were but mere passages in the second act of an immutable drama.
With the universe's expansion so too waxed the awareness that what was deemed choice was merely the unraveling of every potentiality conceived, rehearsed, and enacted across the boundless march of time. The notion of chance was a fable within the slumber a soothing lore narrated by beings unto themselves, for the reality was far more labyrinthine and fated.
The void at the art piece's heart, the ever-ravenous black hole stood as the lodestone of all tales, the terminus to which every journey was destined. It was the quiescence following the ultimate cadence the void where all narratives would finally slumber, their roles enacted, their lines recited.
Yet, in the artistry of the cosmos the sweeping gestures of galaxies, the meticulous specks of stars, the capricious splendour of nebulae there swelled a sense of wonder that transcended the predetermined. For even within an ordained existence there lay awe in the witnessing in the very act of beholding the inevitable unfurl.
The spectators of this grand art, those who lingered before its frame in hallowed galleries or peered at it through the panes of their screens, found themselves caught in reflection. Was their very act of beholding also inscribed at t=0? Deep within their essence, they perceived the flickers of something untiring, a kinship with the infinite a fleeting conviction that perchance in the act of creation itself, there dwelt something that even t=0 could not encompass.
For within each brushstroke, within every etched line of fate, there lay the artist's imprint, the undefined, the unwritten, the quintessence of creation that persisted as an enigma, a lingering interrogative that hovered even after the ultimate application was bestowed upon the boundless canvas of being.
November 3rd, 2023
Viewed 287 Times - Last Visitor from New York, NY on 11/28/2023 at 12:37 PM