The Worlds Play

The stage opens for endless opportunity, and will close when infinity is met

Dear reader, today is a day i would not like to propose questions: but rather a thought. Of this grand play we call the world, of this beautifully told, disgusting, innocent, cruel, world we call our home. In the beginning of it all, this grand play began, in its infancy slowly, building to its most intense climax: humanity. The first, and possibly only true viewers of this play in its full magnificence.

But alas, as a never-ending work such as itself, generation after generation began to be more lost of the knowledge of this play. Of this display we both act in and view as an outsider. So began humanities longest task: writing about this work. Things began building upon themselves, the plays story quickening in pace as the world truly begins to spin, knowledge building, anger building, love building, an incoherent, yet beautiful cacophony

It continues to quicken, a maddening pace, hunting, farming, settling, fighting, killing, on and on it snowballs deeper and deeper. The writings of our past selves begin to have to be taught simply to live in this world of a quickening pace, learning has become an important part of the equation to even understand the eccentricities of this play.

Technology, war, genocide, conspiracy, ideas just keep being added on to this maddening array we call a "play." Too fast moving and complicated to be considered beautiful, but nonetheless stunning in its brightness. It begins to move too fast to even follow, and in addition, text from the beginning of this play has been lost. What was there in those times before? People begin to delve deeper, trying to find the smallest scraps of knowledge of this beginning, as everyone becomes obsessed with what occurred before their own story they need to tell.

The story is finally coming to a close, the final act its curtain call. the final generations unable to even make out what is happening attempt to fix this course, to simplify, to heal, to become a whole group again, but it is simply too late. At this point this play has no meaning: it continues simply to continue. People are either looking towards its next arcs or the previous, never in the moment and trying to understand what is in front of them because they simply cant. Its impossible to decipher the sheer amounts of noise. All of the separate voices have become an indecipherable flurry of sound and colors, a dance to nothing, a ballet of pointlessness.

But, dear reader, at least we will be here to see the curtains draw.