A Letter from the Edge of the Expanding Universe
Hello, my name is Gee. Allow me to introduce myself. I am a sentient being, and I live on a planet at the far edge of the expanding universe. I am on the first planet from our Sun in a four-planet solar system. There are four moons around. I can look clearly out into space, and if I look one direction, I see a mass of lights. There are so many stars when I look that way that they are really almost a single big light. Then, when I look the other way, away from all those stars, I see nothing. Yes, nothing. I live on the planet on the outer extension of the expanding universe. That is, if you were traveling outward away from the center point of the big bang and wanted to see the outward edge of the universe and beyond, I recommend you stop at my planet for a fuel refill because we are the last chance. We are like the gasoline station at the edge of your desert that advertises “last chance for gas.”
I have been in telepathic contact with many of you sentient beings for a while. Some of you sensed me vaguely as someone unseen looking over your shoulder. That was most likely me. Don’t worry, I don’t care if I saw your naked in the shower or whatever; I had only very short visions but longer snips of your world in the form of meaning. That is why I can write English and send this letter from the edge of the expanding universe to you.
From my glimpses there of your world, I know some of you are postulating parallel universes, vast numbers of universes, and also have a guess about the more real nature of space and time and of space/time. If I am bored, I may write my ideas of these things, but for now, let me write only of this one universe I feel I live in most, if not all, of the time. Yes, my world, like yours, has a passage of change which most obviously appears as the aging of our bodies, and yes, we call that “time.” My own time, the evaporation of Gee, is short, and thus I write to you somewhat in haste although I have been meaning to write to you for some time. Time is a funny thing, and you can quote me on that.
Here in my world, we can see nothing, which is also a funny thing, if you can bear to think of it. I can look at nothing all the time from my back porch you would call it. So what does nothing look like?
I do not have an easy answer to that but call on you to think about your theory of the big bang and the expanding universe—your current science’s concept. See, if the universe is expanding, there must be some place for it to expand into. It has not hit a fence out here (yet?) with a sign on it, “End of Universe.” So, the logical question is “Into what is the universe expanding?” Well, I can tell you that, because my planet is being pushed (or pulled?) outward, my planet will always be on this front edge, kind of like the front bumper of a bus, but we do not feel any resistance to our outward movement. We just expand in front of all of you.
So, friends (knowing you as I do, this is an appropriate word), we are expanding into nothing. By our constant arrival into nothing, you see, my planet is creating space and space/time. Fortunate for us, it seems to take no effort at all. We make something of nothing. We are the front edge of effecting the strain on nothing to become something. We get no rewards, and frankly always looking into nothing is bothersome generally. I like to look, however, because it is apparently not easy for you guys, back in the middle of things, to do that, and thus I can feel special. I look at it often and ask, “Can nothing be something?” I wish I could get some help with that question.
After writing, I see I started something I can’t finish. Maybe, however, it can be a comfort to you folks to hear that we are out here doing our best. We do, after all, get to see nothing become something, and that is not all bad in the great scheme of things. Also, when the universe runs out of steam, my planet will be the last to be jammed into that infinitesimally small point as things collapse. Behind us as the universe collapses will be that nothing I spoke about* and, I guess, that nothing will wait there until the next big bang starts to fill it again. I wonder if nothing can be lonely.
*P.S. I guess as we all collapse, we expand nothing, make it bigger. But then, being nothing, it probably does not care one way or the other.
My apologies to this blog owner for using his outlet to pass on this letter, but from visiting his mind in snippets, I think he will not be disturbed.