Memoirs of the Unborn. Space

The twelfth story, the last one.

It may seem that it has always existed and is as old as this world. It seems strange to think otherwise. So infinite, dark, bottomless. So tangible. A kind of cradle of all things, a silent womb where stars and galaxies are born, expanding faster than the speed of light, as Hubble predicted. A kind of equal temporal dimension in which the unborn God dreamed of creating the world, curving and stretching under the influence of dark matter and dark energy, like fabric on the strings of a universal harp, as Einstein described in his theory of relativity.

In its infinity, consisting of quantum foam, worlds are born and die, stars flare up and go out, comets dance, leaving behind trails of gas and dust. It embraces them all, gives them a place to be. It is the stage on which the grandiose drama of the universe unfolds, where an unborn planet could become home to unborn humanity, and gravity, curving space-time, could bind them all together.

It feels unborn time flowing through it, curving and slowing down near massive objects, as Einstein claimed. It hears the whisper of stardust, the birth of new suns in fiery vortices of thermonuclear fusion, the cries of dying worlds collapsing into black holes, where, as Hawking suggested, new universes are born. It is a witness to everything that could have been but never came to fruition, existing in an infinite number of parallel universes, as string theory suggests.

It sees in its dreams, as if in reality, an unborn city full of life and light, where unborn twins could play in the streets, and an unborn family could gather by the fireplace to share their unborn memories. It sees an unborn singer, whose voice could fill it with melodies and songs that were never heard, spreading through its endless spaces at the speed of light, as Maxwell described.

But all this is just a dream. The space we know is, in fact, nothing more than emptiness that has never been filled. Nothing that never became something.

The unborn space that will remain unborn forever, dissolving into the infinity of non-existence, like dreams disappearing at dawn. And along with it disappears the reader of these lines, because he does not and cannot exist outside of space. Like the author of these lines himself, unborn in the unborn space-time continuum.

26.07.2024