We are made of the void, you and I, a conceit of physics, where from nothing all things are conceived. Movements of space-time, we are all of us merely ripples in the ether, which is itself only a concept. Many of us believe that we can never know the true particulars of all our particles; there are some, though, who just think we have not dug deep enough; myself, I will always believe that we hang upon uncertainty always, and the absolute ground of all things is not for man to comprehend. All our networks of knowing start at the middle and extend upward and downward in structure arbitrarily far, but anything like ultimate meaning is meant, I think, only for the infinite to grasp. We do remarkably well for living with such unknowns like we do; we take what we can get and make of the things around us that which will yield shape. We are the means by which the universe perceives itself, and perhaps we are not nothing, after all. True, we are not the I AM that needs not any other reason, but made in the image of such light, we ourselves can say to the darkness that let there be light be so, however feeble our light to be, and to see it comes that there was light, after all.
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