Unlike other art, the written word cannot be consumed all at once, in a glimpse or a blink.
Of course, anyone would want to stand in front of a painting for an hour or so to get all they can from it, but they do not have to.
But something written must be read, a few words at a time. And while reading speed may change, it will still require some passing of time.
Time seems to be infinite.
We will die.
Our sun will die.
Our planet will be eaten with fire.
But the universe is a grand and unfeeling thing, and it will go on without us.
Time seems to be infinite,
Except it appears to have a beginning.
Before the big bang, before the universe exploded into being,
The density of energy is incomprehensible.
It’s not that there was no time, but…
Time didn’t mean anything.
The way “north” loses meaning at the north pole.
Time may be infinite, but it is linear.
I picture a line on a coordinate plane,
Just like in a middle school geometry class.
The arrows at the end mean it goes on forever.
I close my eyes and picture the line, 1 dimensional, but physical, real.
I hold the line in place, but then my mind, in the picture,
I move
And change my perspective,
Inching closer and closer to the line, curving around until I am parallel to it, looking down it
On top of it, facing infinity with it, and from that perspective
The line disappears into a point,
Like a pencil pointed toward my eye,
And I can see the entire universe at once, all of eternity now,
And I wonder, dear reader, about you, about us,
About what would happen if we lived all our moments at once,
Like characters from Slaughter House IV,
experienced the whole story from beginning to end in one explosive jolt,
Our own big bang,
Our own impossible infinity.
