Flies in the Frost
((StephenHawking’s Universe) (pertaining to his book “The Grand Design”))
Stephen Hawking says we are stones in a universe, or at least to me, that is what he implies—that grow tentacles, like an octopus; he tells us to think realistically, that we are simply in a small camp in a large forest, with a communal latrine. How devastating that seems. Nonetheless, he implies we are part of a universe that is endless. One with no beginning, and no end, consequently, we are among the procession of skeletons continuously moaning for a God that doesn’t exist, as if we had diarrhea.
And if there is a God, He’s unnecessary, and might just be as well, a shadow hiding in a latrine. Thus, we are all corpses carriers—prisoners of the island Earth, in crisscrossing seas. He takes what little hope man has, feeding us dead flies in the frost, staggering us about, until we’re lost: wondering along the roads, until we’re separated from God—and from that unbridgeable comradeship we once had, for a dead eyed universe that doesn’t talk, or think, but somehow creates everything, telling us we are utterly resigned to its fate: no sugar on his slice of cake. All though he allows us a few physical functions, but no will of our own.
So we die like flies in the frost, moved like stones to our fate; flies in the frost, there is no reason, so, there is no universal loss. So this temptation we fight against, to grab faith by the shoulders, disappears in less than a minute of time, in its ever lasting expanse, how empty a cup he offers. And thereafter we remain forgotten by our comrades on the other side, as if behind a barbwire fence, written off, isolated a remnant of lost time, now in the territory of the dead. But what if he’s mistaken?
And
this permanent hunger we seem to have for eternal life, life after death, is God’s voice speaking over a loudspeaker from the gates of heaven, to our souls, to the marrow in our bones, to the visions in our brains. Oh my gosh, I’m no longer a forehead with just a nose, a face with eyes, and a hole called a mouth. What if God is wailing over that loudspeaker “Stop!” and adds to that, “What’s the matter with you all, that you’re making such a fuss about this new concept”; perhaps as old as the Northern Star. And now Hawking blinks his eyes “What,” he says, hearing Jehovah, but just thinking its some frosted flies in his head, because such a reality is an enormous word for him. Hence, he avoids the call, thinking out loud, glances around in fear, and he murmurs “Those wild rumors, which is playing the trick?” It’s the End!
No: 2799 (9-21-2010)
((StephenHawking’s Universe) (pertaining to his book “The Grand Design”))
Stephen Hawking says we are stones in a universe, or at least to me, that is what he implies—that grow tentacles, like an octopus; he tells us to think realistically, that we are simply in a small camp in a large forest, with a communal latrine. How devastating that seems. Nonetheless, he implies we are part of a universe that is endless. One with no beginning, and no end, consequently, we are among the procession of skeletons continuously moaning for a God that doesn’t exist, as if we had diarrhea.
And if there is a God, He’s unnecessary, and might just be as well, a shadow hiding in a latrine. Thus, we are all corpses carriers—prisoners of the island Earth, in crisscrossing seas. He takes what little hope man has, feeding us dead flies in the frost, staggering us about, until we’re lost: wondering along the roads, until we’re separated from God—and from that unbridgeable comradeship we once had, for a dead eyed universe that doesn’t talk, or think, but somehow creates everything, telling us we are utterly resigned to its fate: no sugar on his slice of cake. All though he allows us a few physical functions, but no will of our own.
So we die like flies in the frost, moved like stones to our fate; flies in the frost, there is no reason, so, there is no universal loss. So this temptation we fight against, to grab faith by the shoulders, disappears in less than a minute of time, in its ever lasting expanse, how empty a cup he offers. And thereafter we remain forgotten by our comrades on the other side, as if behind a barbwire fence, written off, isolated a remnant of lost time, now in the territory of the dead. But what if he’s mistaken?
And
this permanent hunger we seem to have for eternal life, life after death, is God’s voice speaking over a loudspeaker from the gates of heaven, to our souls, to the marrow in our bones, to the visions in our brains. Oh my gosh, I’m no longer a forehead with just a nose, a face with eyes, and a hole called a mouth. What if God is wailing over that loudspeaker “Stop!” and adds to that, “What’s the matter with you all, that you’re making such a fuss about this new concept”; perhaps as old as the Northern Star. And now Hawking blinks his eyes “What,” he says, hearing Jehovah, but just thinking its some frosted flies in his head, because such a reality is an enormous word for him. Hence, he avoids the call, thinking out loud, glances around in fear, and he murmurs “Those wild rumors, which is playing the trick?” It’s the End!
No: 2799 (9-21-2010)
No comments:
Post a Comment