Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,628
The universe is not a grand design or benevolent expanse—it is a cold, indifferent machine of entropy and decay. Despite its aesthetic disguises—stars strewn across the sky, the illusion of order in galaxies and orbits—it is, at its core, a violent and purposeless system. Life, brief and improbable, flickers for a moment in this abyss, only to be swallowed again by the silence that dominates all things. The universe is not a home. It is a vast, brutal field of nothingness in which existence fights a losing battle against time, gravity, and meaninglessness.
We do not live in a universe built for us. We survive in narrow margins—tiny, fragile pockets of stability surrounded by endless, lethal void. 99.9999% of the universe is a vacuum so hostile that human life would be instantly destroyed. Radiation, freezing temperatures, supernovae, and black holes dominate the landscape. Life is not celebrated here; it is tolerated for a moment before being extinguished. Our very existence is an anomaly, not a purpose.
Even within our temporary reprieve from death, we own nothing. Not truly. We build, we hoard, we fight for territory, status, possessions—but everything we claim is borrowed. The atoms in our bodies, the homes we live in, the land we "own," all of it is on loan from a universe that will one day reclaim it. You cannot own a thing that is destined to be torn away. Time strips all ownership bare. The stars we admire will die. The planets we inhabit will fall. The identities we cling to will dissolve as our bodies decay. We possess nothing—only the illusion of control, momentarily tolerated by a universe that has never promised us permanence.
This illusion of permanence is perhaps the universe's cruelest joke. We build civilizations, erect monuments, craft legacies—yet nothing endures. Empires crumble into dust. Languages vanish. Digital memories fade with failing servers and forgotten passwords. Even the starlight that travels across the cosmos is destined to redshift into nothingness. The universe is not just indifferent to our lives—it is hostile to their memory.
And so, time becomes the executioner of all things. Not merely the ender of individual lives, but the eroder of meaning itself. No matter what is built, loved, protected, or remembered—it all dies. If the universe were anything but a theater of destruction, something—anything—would be allowed to last. But permanence is a myth. There is only flux. There is only loss.
Even consciousness, that final claim of significance, is a chemical illusion suspended in decaying matter. The mind, the self, the soul—whatever we call it—is temporary, dissolving with the body. Our most sacred moments, our deepest thoughts and loves, vanish like smoke in wind. And the universe watches none of it. There is no cosmic witness, no grand observer. The stars do not care. The void does not remember.
If justice existed, if there were meaning or purpose written into the structure of the cosmos, then not everything would be subject to decay. Innocence would not suffer. Greatness would not be forgotten. But the universe distributes pain and death with the same indifference it shows to beauty and joy. It is not evil—it is worse: mechanical, blind, and absolute.
The universe is a mausoleum of impermanence. Nothing truly belongs to us—not our lives, our loves, or our legacies. Everything is temporary, borrowed, and doomed. No matter what we build or cherish, it will collapse, forgotten in the expanding dark. If hell is suffering without justice, love without permanence, and existence without purpose, then we are not merely living in it—we are of it. The universe is not broken. It is functioning exactly as it always has: as a perfect engine of entropy, loss, and silence.
We do not live in a universe built for us. We survive in narrow margins—tiny, fragile pockets of stability surrounded by endless, lethal void. 99.9999% of the universe is a vacuum so hostile that human life would be instantly destroyed. Radiation, freezing temperatures, supernovae, and black holes dominate the landscape. Life is not celebrated here; it is tolerated for a moment before being extinguished. Our very existence is an anomaly, not a purpose.
Even within our temporary reprieve from death, we own nothing. Not truly. We build, we hoard, we fight for territory, status, possessions—but everything we claim is borrowed. The atoms in our bodies, the homes we live in, the land we "own," all of it is on loan from a universe that will one day reclaim it. You cannot own a thing that is destined to be torn away. Time strips all ownership bare. The stars we admire will die. The planets we inhabit will fall. The identities we cling to will dissolve as our bodies decay. We possess nothing—only the illusion of control, momentarily tolerated by a universe that has never promised us permanence.
This illusion of permanence is perhaps the universe's cruelest joke. We build civilizations, erect monuments, craft legacies—yet nothing endures. Empires crumble into dust. Languages vanish. Digital memories fade with failing servers and forgotten passwords. Even the starlight that travels across the cosmos is destined to redshift into nothingness. The universe is not just indifferent to our lives—it is hostile to their memory.
And so, time becomes the executioner of all things. Not merely the ender of individual lives, but the eroder of meaning itself. No matter what is built, loved, protected, or remembered—it all dies. If the universe were anything but a theater of destruction, something—anything—would be allowed to last. But permanence is a myth. There is only flux. There is only loss.
Even consciousness, that final claim of significance, is a chemical illusion suspended in decaying matter. The mind, the self, the soul—whatever we call it—is temporary, dissolving with the body. Our most sacred moments, our deepest thoughts and loves, vanish like smoke in wind. And the universe watches none of it. There is no cosmic witness, no grand observer. The stars do not care. The void does not remember.
If justice existed, if there were meaning or purpose written into the structure of the cosmos, then not everything would be subject to decay. Innocence would not suffer. Greatness would not be forgotten. But the universe distributes pain and death with the same indifference it shows to beauty and joy. It is not evil—it is worse: mechanical, blind, and absolute.
The universe is a mausoleum of impermanence. Nothing truly belongs to us—not our lives, our loves, or our legacies. Everything is temporary, borrowed, and doomed. No matter what we build or cherish, it will collapse, forgotten in the expanding dark. If hell is suffering without justice, love without permanence, and existence without purpose, then we are not merely living in it—we are of it. The universe is not broken. It is functioning exactly as it always has: as a perfect engine of entropy, loss, and silence.
