A Shape Like Truth

By Kai Tao

It’s hard to imagine the feeling I had when the truth arrived: as a scientist it had been the object of my search since before I can remember; to see it was so beautiful, but depression clawed at my insides all the same. Perhaps I could describe it as a fusion of the most transcendent ecstasy and unhallowed depths of nihilistic despair, it felt like love: communion, like the visions of Saint Teresa, who felt rapture so sweet it could be mistaken for pain, I believe that feeling would be what we all would possess upon viewing what I saw.
I should give context, though truly with things of this magnitude I do not believe it is necessary. Every other story from the mouth and mind of humanity required such, to identify with the setting, to be human, otherwise the words could never be the same: what is a cup or a chair to those without organs: as the philosopher Wittgenstein once said, “If a lion could speak we could never understand it.” But this thing, it does not need words to be expressed, it was described in the things we felt, it burned in words, in parable it was like the last thing. That last cockroach alive centuries after humanity, self assured in its singularity as the only living thing alive. The winner, the true solipsist. Who would there be to tell that insect it is wrong, that it cannot do the things it does? At that time, a cockroach could speak. In the same manner was this thing, though to call it that would be to reduce its singularity by implying that it existed in the context of a surrounding system of laws, (which of course could not be stated due to the nature of that entity which could not even be contained by the word “it.” If you the reader wish to imagine this being due not do so in the manner of assigning “it” pronouns, though alas I must do so to communicate of the occurrence even in aphorisms.
In order to understand this being we spoke to it. Conventional means of communication relyant on symbols and syntax proved completely insufficient. It was as though the being has no context even to understand the concept of the number “one.” Our conceived starting place for the interaction. By demonstrating to this being a concept it recognized we could then begin performing operations on that concept in order to introduce verbs, conjunctions, prepositions etc. instead however, no response of any kind could be recorded. These things were never even attempted however. As by the time we saw this everyone in the room was already enraptured.
To see a god up close is to lose one’s sanity; how else can one perceive god but be becoming a god, for perception implies interaction, and interaction implies a commonality. Divinity as such is not merely a dimension that can come and go, it’s is a transcendence. A metaphysical quality and as such cannot be represented, even by a variable, within a completely divorced system of logic. In what way could we say the unsayable? In order to provide an example of the being’s nature I will show you something comparable, the mystical, that which is beyond logic, paradox. To represent this paradox I will use the famous sentence “this statement is unprovable”; feed this into an encoded equation and it becomes {~(3r:3s:(P(r,s)(s=g(SUB(f_2(y)))))))}; thus the basic systems of logic have been pierced, but we are still unable to gorge ourselves on its blood; the nature of this outer logic remains unknown to us. Perhaps in that case it would be foolish to assume the alien system of logic as in any way superior to our own, indeed it could perhaps not comprehend our own logic, however this being seemed to me as a thing displaced, or an echo of something. I believe it was from the end of time, indeed if I were a religious person I would say that this was the kingdom come, the passing of death, the killing of death.
The being is the final argument of the universe, it is the being that has evolved and adapted past the life of everything else, to such an extent that it requires no validation, it is contingent upon nothing but itself, one could describe it as a physical tautology. And indeed it could be said it’s own existence was redundant like a tautology, identical to the ground state of the universe. One could say that it would have been no different if the universe had never begun. But this is wrong. This being is contingent upon itself, not nothing, even if it is itself nothing that nothing is not contingent upon the lack of a beginning. This thing thus did not always exist, it adapted. I’m put in the mind of thinking it a rose, the way it stretches across topologies. Pruned by the universe into utter perfection. In fact I do not even need to give you this explanation.
This thing is us. It has to be, else we were never truly real, we are the solipsist that adapts, we humans are the final cockroach, you me, anyone who is real, this thing is not contingent upon my or anyone else’s description. Merely by its own. If you are a mathematician I implore you to create a set which defines its existence; I believe it would look something like this shape. If you are a poet, compose a poem that composed itself. In these things you will express your devotion, our communion, to infinity.

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