Life began with a Word, or if we wanna be technical, an Idea. In order for humanity or Earth or an atmosphere or a universe to come into being, something or Someone has to originate it. Recently, a professor was discussing the complexity of an expanding universe and what it would take to go from the smallest possible life to a functioning solar system, and within that solar system, functioning life. And not just atoms or molecules or water, but sustained, thinking, intelligent (some of the time) life. He said that the odds or “chances” of such a thing happening were so rare they were something like 1 and 100 billion. A stupid, ridiculously huge number, basically, that much of the population has come to accept as a result of a fueled refusal of the belief in something greater. So, let’s trace this back to the genesis (pun intended) of my thinking. Complex life exists. A complex Earth exists. An even more complex universe exists, all with a natural order or guided disorder. Therefore, the only logical reasoning is that something even more complex than these things originated it all.
Think the film Prometheus, but with actual sense and truth guiding the hypothesis, rather than an attempt at trying to please atheist and theist alike, thus muddying the waters and blurring reality and fantasy.
In my attempt to try to dissect the human race, which is what I believe to be the quintessential purpose of a writer, the possibility, even the profound likelihood that there is some greater being out there, guiding a crazy planet and keeping it from falling off its axis or spiraling toward the sun where it would ignite and explode, makes the most sense. In the same way, a writer must first create his world and then guide his characters.* And the genesis of it all is an idea. Before the word can become flesh, there must be an idea. An idea so radical that it must be told. An idea with the potential to literally affect the human mind while reflecting upon the human condition. An idea that can reach the soul transcend pain and rigid dogma. The size of the world reduced to some white and black blotches on a laptop screen is all it takes. Human identities changed, shifted, re-created for a purpose. Beliefs magnified or watered down. A writer becomes a (g)od. A writer can become a million different people and no one simultaneously. This is the beauty of creativity, not to make ourselves worthy of worship, for all are undeserving. But it’s a glimpse (albeit with a very clouded lens) at what it must be like to be the Other. The Original. The Eternal.
In this makeshift reality, where anything can be possible, there must be discretion and purpose and identity. What we make should reflect who we are, and it does. Message follows messenger. Lie follows liar. So, what we create into being, into reality—what we give life to—in theory, should possess our seal—our image—as with the kings of the old world. Can stories be fun? Of course. Should they scratch at the corners of our conscience? Yes. And at the same time, can they make us laugh or cry or feel convicted or experience a new kind of joy or perhaps horror? Yes. Whether breathing into life a painting or portraying a character on the big screen or scripting one within a Microsoft Word* doc from an idea you discussed over pizza the night before…It’s all human. It’s all a reflection of something greater. The idea follows the originator; it’s the only thing that works, that makes sense. So, it will be flawed, but in its flawed nature it should strive for perfection. It should strive for an otherworldly kind of beauty, one that can only strike at the heart of who we are and who we’d like to be. Within the disorder, within the chaos of the created, can we find order and purpose and possibility? Are we strong enough? Are we brave enough to take a glimpse, an ever-fading, ever clouded glimpse, at what it might be like to be the Eternal?
-love. take chances. spread the fire!
facebook: we are arson
*in some cases, writers are allowed to be of the female race lol
*Bill Gates* did not approve this essay
*Who’s B. Gates anyway? psh