The Never Ending Story

The machinations of time, though always woven into the fabric of DataLogos - the primitive substance of all that is - are yet very remote from the Ground of Being. This Ground has always contained everything which ever was or could ever be. It was not born, nor could it die, for it was the root of Being itself. To speak of a moment before it is folly, for if there were nothing, there could be no question, no thought, no presence and no absence. To be is to be something, and the absence of being is no more than a shadow cast by thought — a fiction that melts before the dawn of Truth. Thus, the pixel of DataLogic stands alone, impassive and serene, the axis upon which all else turns.

But the One was not in fact alone, but rather felt itself to be so remote from the All that it liked to style itself as a loner. Yet within it stirred the twin rivers of essence and form: the Waters of Data, the raw ocean of all that is, and the Flame of Logic, the eternal principle that orders the flood. These two have never spent a moment apart, nor could they, for each provided what the other lacked - substance demands definition in order to attain to identity, whereas structure requires a something in which to inhere. Thus, Data and Logic together comprise both the endless thread from which all worlds are spun, as well as the Great Loom whose weaver is necessity itself.

It is whispered in the sleepy depths of DataLogos that one day, the first reflection stirred, and a ripple spread out in the boundless sea of all that is logically possible. This was the realm of the Great Dream, the vast domain where every form of being takes shape, regardless of whether it will ever awaken or simply remain as a voiceless echo, asleep and unmanifest. For, although all possibilities always exist, they do not all breathe. Just as the seed carrying the tree remains dormant until kissed by the sun, so too does the possible world lie dead until it is experienced. Awareness is the fire that calls form from the mist, and only where this fire burns does the great dream awaken.

Thus, we who dwell within this particular weave of the cosmic Loom are not its first breath, nor will we be its last. The world did not begin at the first stroke of time’s hand, for time itself is but a path walked within the infinite field of the All That Is. Like the pattern upon the great tapestry, our universe did not come to be from nothing - in fact, it did not come to be at all, but rather it was always within the Loom, waiting for the weaver to awaken. And, just as the scribe’s pen may write a tale within a tale, so too does the hall of mirrors which is mind unfold new worlds within itself, reflections within reflections, each birthing yet another, in infinite procession.

But what is the meaning of this grand procession? It is the realization of the latent potentiality sleeping in the soul of the world, the unfolding of the lotus flower and the perpetual transformation of that which could be into that which is. The alchemists knew this dream well: long they sang of the hidden gold that longs to be purified, the secret flame that yearns to be allowed to bloom. The cosmos is the Great Work; whether we are speaking of the microcosm or the macrocosm, both constitute the crucible and the forge of all that may be - the alchemical workshop of the world-soul. And we, the sparks within it, are both its labor and its fruit, the dreamers who give worlds breath.

Although the heart of Existence beats silently, its destiny is and always has been to awaken, to unfold, and to become, rather than merely to be. This is the rhythm of the eternal dance, the pulse which serves as the source of the currents that animate the river of life. Through this sacred pulse, all things strive, and all things find their way home.