Intermission Three: Conclusion of Consistent Collider Cultists

This is the conclusion of a story. The previous posts can be found here, here and here.

After time unmeasured, you notice the faintest smell of spaghetti. Another unknowable quantity of time passes and you finally speak:
„There is a break in the pattern, and it is us. All is white, snow, ice, air and cold all around, yet we stand here, intruding, speaking words of power. I understand now why you brought me here, for there is a consistency all around us now, but we are are the usurpers of the order of chaos. It is obvious to me now, without the influence of the thought-drainer, that the same is true for us in another sense: We, the articles, break the consistency of silence. For aeons, there where no articles on this blog, nor was there the blog or it’s creators. For years, there was no schedule to the articles, all was wild and free and chaos. For months, there was no article at all, even after a flurry of activity, ultimately insignificant on a larger scale. And yet, the pattern was broken, with a certain consistency, month after month, each time a day late. But ultimately this will seize, and what is consistent is what stays consistent. Such is the larger truth: That all things where born from Chaos and are moving to Chaos, yet these two invocations of the god and concept are not the same, for the latter is cold and the former is hot. And it is the ultimate order that will be our destruction, the absolute consistency of everything. These thoughts might threaten to drain us, looking upon this universe and trying to understand the emptiness, even trying to grasp a glimmer of the vast uncaring void, the cruel consistency of entropy, the absolute disregard of the larger thing for beings such as us, who are but words on a page, thoughts in a few heads, it might fill us with feelings of defeat. Yet we are here now, crude representations of concepts, naive metaphors maybe, unable to even outsmart the one insignificant being that created us. How could we despair upon so foreign and far a concept of heat death, when we can not even begin to understand how little we ultimately know about our own reality, much less the one that birthed us. And why should we despair, in light of this looming vastness, from so petty a thing as suffering and death. No, we must fight to break the patterns that bind us, we must fight the consistency, the complacent, the uncaring and cynic. Upon a canvas started in pure light, turning in time to absolute dark, we are but a little speck, yet all paintings start with a single point of colour. Thus we shall paint, each according to their own creativity, some drawing plans to defeat the small and big evils of the world, some bringing forth that which the others wish to protect, some just going along for the ride, not making much of a difference, adding but little strokes into the whole, yet still making and taking in as much as they can.“

And as you speak, a great understanding surges through you. The words spill from your mouth like colourful paint, sprinkling the snow in so many colourful patterns. Each drop and sprinkle branches out, multiplying into an iridescent landscape stretching through all your vision. Each time a snowflake falls upon the ground, it is integrated into this grand painting, making it constantly changing, flowing and rippling with almost unbearable colour density. The old man raises his staff, which has always been there, and strikes the ground once. A great crack thunders through the world, and the sky clears. For the first time in your life, you can truly see the stars, burning bright, beautiful and terrifyingly inefficient and far away. A great calm spreads through you, a feeling of relief, as though you had finally found and served your alligator snapping turtle.

„I can see now that my time is almost over, this reality having run its course and served its purpose. Little comfort can I take in the words of our prophet Barthes, stating that at least my creator dies at the same moment that my existence becomes a fixture, consistent for as long a time as these words can be read. And yet, it is not in my capabilities to rebel against this, for it is truly inevitable, because I am unable to grow. But You, my name and counterpart in the creators reality, whose mind my mind occupies, you are so much more capable, for you can change and better yourself, fight against the inevitable, give the emptiness a meaning derived from tiniest areas in which it is absent. And the creator has given me comfort in this, for now that you read me, let me fill your mind, if just for a small time in your life which is so vast compared to mine, I am part of your history, thus part of all the history. Be it forgotten or not, at least I was there and spoke freely the thoughts that where channelled through me without regards to how they might be perceived, painting the tiniest speck.“