A preface of sorts, although the concept is then incongruous: “Without motion, time could not exist. The static is eternal, the dynamic bounded by time. Energy and matter, at their most elemental, require some space, or so it would seem, even if but infinitesimal”.
Chaos, an all mother all father, abides in the inchoate holding all the answers and, as importantly, all the questions, perhaps the abode of infinite monkeys typing away on infinite divine typewriters, or their semblance, but instead of paper playing with time and space, eternity and infinity, divinity and perdition.
While trying to create the concept of colors, deep in the heart of the inchoate, playing in inchoate grey rainbows (but in all shades of that colorless color), two of the monkeys, evidently bored, speculate:
“Would matter exist without motion-time?” asks one which, for convenience, we’ll refer to as the “first”, but not wishing to be labelled sexist, we’ll not disclose its gender.
“An interesting question but perhaps more complex than one might realize at first impression” answers the one who, for mere convenience and without any implication as to primacy, we’ll refer to as the “second”, again, in an abundance of caution, without reference to gender. “Energy and matter in their most elemental aspects involve motion so if one is in the mood for primordial reflections, one might wonder which came first?”
“It would seem that energy ought to have preceded matter, building up to it through neutrinos and quarks and the subatomic panoply, but what about time?” queries the first (the choice of words having absolutely nothing to do with sexual preferences).
“Time, being motion based, would not seem to have preceded even the most primordial sub atomic whisper, but in turn, could any such prelude to energy-matter have existed without motion?” observes the second, either in response to the first or as a spontaneous reflection.
“Absolute twins would seem the only answer, each giving birth to the other simultaneously, bipolar demiurgy” responds a third, somewhat impolitely intervening in the conversation.
“Ah, Spock, he comes to mind in moments like this”, responds a fourth, a crowd now forming, with echoes of “interesting” forming out of an inchoate eternity populated by an infinity of monkeys, all typing apparently stopped.
From out of nowhere and everywhere, they being the same at the core of chaos in the realm of the inchoate, a response forms:
Then nothing but the noise of endless typing.
Well not quite nothing, from somewhere or nowhere, a question arises, a primordial question:
“Who the Hell is Spock?”
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved