Picture the nature of the universe as an exercise in pointillism…
So the beginning of this work of art is not a stroke, or a dab, but a single, tiny dot. And that dot is joined by another, and another, and another. And as you pull out farther and farther, the dots stop being dots. They disappear, blending into colors and shapes.
Taking forms.
And if we continue to pull back, we find that these colors and these shapes are no longer themselves, either. There is no definitive answer as to what they are, of course. They could be horses, they could be reclining nudes, they could be the darkest part of the forest.
They might even be something unrecognizable, something that doesn’t exist on this Earth as we know it.
And if we pull back even farther, we see the limits of the universe, hanging on a wall in a museum.
This is how the whole of existence works.
At the very bottom of us and everything that is, are these tiny particles we can’t see, that it seems ridiculous to even conceive of. And once you’ve conceived of such a thing, it’s hard to imagine finding it comforting, anymore than a horse made of pigment would find it comfortable to realize that he started out as a tiny dot on a canvas.
Then again, maybe comfort isn’t the point. Maybe perspective is.
So stop complaining; we’re all just dots on a canvas anyway…
Pryorball. 