The Eyes of Eternity

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Not that I’ve ever had the joy of trying, for I’ve never— not for the last million years— heard a scream within atmospheric bounds either. For my fellow lifelings and I stopped screaming years ago, for screams are a sign of fear, and fear was eradicated back in far distant millennia. Fear was the first of all feelings, established in our primeval minds upon some primordial stone, and therefore first to go. But tears remained, and flourished. So yes, I have heard men cry, in that void of infinite expanse, swept with agony and despondence at the loneliness of such an empty spread of time.

Sorrow is now become the norm for all we who drift here in the airless region between stars, we who are grown too big for our heavy homes, and our minds now too large to return. For what joy we once felt in the comfort of our mothers’ wombs can never be reobtained, and so we left the haunting places which composed all of our planets, only to find the infinite expanse just as joyless. We drift on now, for ourselves desiring only an end to our spiritless woes, but despairing that all these long eternities will have come to nothing. For we fast approach not just the end of our own lives, but that of everything in existence.

The stars are all now faded and cold, a laughable comparison to their former glory. The distance between has grown considerably, as the distance between once-great friends does diminish from the time of commencement to the time of countryside retirement. And so, the last I heard from my fellow Terminers— we alone who were destined to witness the last days of the Universe— we had all agreed upon such a final retiring. We would all quietly fade, just like the stars.

But I was always strange among my peers, even from my earliest recollections. The fact that I still have recollections of my youth is the biggest indicator of my separation from them. For the other Terminers have all forgotten their earliest days. It pained them to remember, and so, after millions of years, they let slip their memories of corporeal life, when they— like all other primitive beings— were trapped in cages of flesh and bone, a slave to social structure and material necessity.

But, unlike them, it pained me to forget. And so I held on to my memories like I held on to my collection of maps, or the pictures of the girl I found most stunning. I reminded myself to remember. It was my only religion, down through every century, to grasp tightly those few ancient echos which had not yet escaped. And so it is that now, so very near the end of everything, I have accomplished what my fellows told me was impossible. I have retained my old dreams, identity, and visions of earliest life, still as vivid now as the days in which they were made.

I remember the initial shock which brought me into this real conscious state, the start of the continuum, the first mark in this narrative which has gone on for something like a trillion years: the cold discomfort of my grandmother’s silver basin, coupled with the thrill of running water, as she bathed me in that small sink, with golden rays of light flooding through the window. That period of helplessness seemed to be the first eternity, and when I graduated on to the actual bathtub in her bathroom, I felt a larger sense of pride and liberation than I would for a hundred years.

I remember seeing stars, not naturally at first, but on my own ceiling, hung up by my young mother who had not yet moved out from her parent’s nest. And there, each morning, my plump and jolly grandfather would rip me out of pleasant sleep to stretch my limbs, an uproarious affair for him— chuckling all the while— and I, being several times smaller and without language, only matched his laughter in courtesy, for I never did see the point of crying over things so trivial.

I remember my mother and father fighting, and not understanding why, for it was always in the late hours of the night when they had set me down to sleep. I remember a lot of talk but not much thought going on about me, as I tracked the gazes of my mother and her sisters, and their mother. I wondered about the world outside those walls, and the walls of the trees beyond… they did not speak at all on those things, and I wondered why. For I was curious about beginnings. I was curious about who we were, and who all the others in the world were, and what our purpose was in such a place and time, and whether we would see it all in the end.

I suppose similar circumstances had led my fellow Terminers to willingly wash away all the earliest recollections of their lives, for theirs were— like mine— wholly unremarkable compared to what followed. We had all been born to families who would hardly be called conscious by those of the “Future.” Our predecessors had lived lives of utmost simplicity, their minds never caring to expand farther than a mile down the road. And so, many who lived on into Incorporeality saw those early days as an embarrassment to be swiftly forgotten.

I don’t know why, but I was always rather fond of my family. Ill-suited as I was to live with them, and despite all the setbacks and shortcomings I experienced as a result of being unable to leave them in my first century, I find their words still following me on into eternity. Their faces remain, their memory strong.

Ah, but none of that matters now. For now, even Eternity is at its end.

I wander now, among bright bru (perhaps you recognize the hue as “orange”) sand dunes of Haethos— bright only because I have come. A moment ago, when I was drifting in the black void of space, this place would have been dark too. For its sun was silenced some time ago. Yet I, as a Terminer, carry my own light with me, and now the old sphere is lit up as it would have been before the darkening of stars.

But it’s a far different world than I knew, before I ascended for my final floatings of introspection. Back in the high days of the Gyathon Galaxy— say, in the 956th Millennium— this place was well groomed, and knew not a grain of sand. For the particles of rock all knew their place, to stand tall with other particles, in formation of rock. Yes, I remember a time when all of Haethos was covered in perfect, upright stone, smooth to the touch and soaring to the sound.

Children ruled this place, as was found to be the most effective means of governance in all the long years of Galactic Harmony. For children are pure of heart and full of energy, the kind which breeds benevolent rule, and they were kind to their ancestors— ancestors, who, having been afforded the reins of rule in their youth had since grown tired of such indulgent power, and went on to live lives of peace and prosperity, after they had taught their children how to govern in their stead.

Of course, not every civilized world followed the lead of Haethos. There were some, like neighboring Glentairum, which employed a peaceful anarchy, wherein all inhabitants simply looked after themselves and took what resources they needed. In the case of Glentairum, this worked out rather smoothly, for the planet had a limitless supply of goods and self-sustaining infrastructure, coupled with a perfect climate and a long history of passive societies. After only a handful of generations, the Glentairums had all settled into nearly identical lives, with the majority of households being identical in nature, producing and consuming in annual unison.

The previous example was a blatant outlier, and for most of my galaxy outside the so-called Placid Loop, things were hardly ever in a state of equilibrium. Worlds in rebellious quadrants such as Yunivar, Kyoso, Malvaria and Otherian would rail on for centuries in fruitless wars against the Galactic Hub— its five core worlds being Sorus, Iosis, Roterra, Citharon and Omnicron.

And of course, where there were not wars and civilized hostilities, there were hostilities of another kind. Hostility of a natural born quality, bred of atmospheric conditions or the lack thereof, or of native creatures which had not yet reached the level of language or complex reasoning, and were therefore compelled to rip apart limb from core any who would walk upon their grounds. Neplicia was such a world, which would lure travelers to its inviting surface, dotted all about with gleaming turquoise pools— all perfectly round, all perfectly warm— with a vast underworld of vicious subterranean beasts just beneath those waters of entrapment. As was Eritessus, with its constant whirlwind of whipping spark and flame: a delightful bath for its people, but a certain fiery death for any of a more temperate upbringing. And no list of hostile worlds would be complete without a nod to Zylidya, where— I remember it clearly— the first colonizers arrived with visions of wealth and wonder, against the backdrop of that ethereal green sunset, as they gazed upon endless fields of rich purple soil… until, minutes later, they were all swallowed up by it, and then dissolved by it, and then consumed. The next round of adventurers got it right when they decided that all architecture upon that violet planet would be made to float among the verdant skies.

Perhaps that hard lesson of Zylidya could be used as a lesson for the Universe as a whole. Perhaps I shall entertain that notion, for a moment— but only for a moment— for, where I used to ponder such thoughts for a wide spell, I now realize that the days for such extravagance are well behind. There is no longer time for long breath nor leisurely thought… for time itself is so very near its end.

Yes, if I am to make one final analogy before all the stars go out, or fall down, or fizzle and fade, or simply drift away… let it be this: that existence was dreadful, and a devil of all sorts, yet my fellows and all the fellows that I had the joy of sharing my galaxy with were bold in that face of terror. They did not die so easily when strikes of hunger, pain or agony did accost them, but rather they marched on, with crafty new steps, and clever schemes to avert what obstacles the Creator had laid before them.

Ah, but where is the Creator? In all of a trillion years she has not revealed herself. Yet so few of my fellows ever gave up hope in her. I, for my part, certainly did not.

But now in the cold sting of this silent desert, where all the works of men and their counterparts lie hidden beneath a million years of ruin… my faith begins to dwindle. Your face, dear heavenly goddess, which seemed so clear when I was a boy… now seems a blur of ancient memory, and folly. The only voice I hear is that of my own, and it pains me. So much. That I long now to turn out the lights for all time on my own accord, and rest in the nothingness which will follow, and flood out all that came before.

Yes it’s clear now. If you, greatest goddess of all that is, were anything other than a flattering fancy, some deep strain of subconscious in the pit of our minds… then surely this is not how you would have had it all end. Surely you would not have crafted a reality so divine, with such beauty, and endless worlds of dancing stars and novae, only to have everything spread so far as to never to come back into one? For this is against all the laws that nature has imparted into the living.

For we, like all who breathe, long to feel close. We long to feel the connection, and the harmony, and the beating of our hearts against that of another. So it should be with the Universe: all the moons with their spheres, and all those spheres with their suns, and a city of stars granting us peace above.

If this place was of any sensible design, so it would be. But that is not the case. Everything’s flown apart! And all that once was is lost… even you, my goddess. I’m now left with no choice, but to cease my belief. And I am left to accept that I am so absolutely alone, here at the end of time, with nothing but my memories, and my strange desire to continue this one-sided dialogue, despite me hating the very thought of my own words.

But perhaps that’s the point. If I was of one accord with myself, then I would truly be alone. But as it is, I— on the one hand— hate the sound of my voice, but also am compelled to speak.

In this way, I am two. Two voices, inside this shell, and therefore I am not quite alone. Perhaps I could even fill this shell with more voices, and turn this coming infinite darkness to a merry host of resurrected spirits. Would I then be their god? To remember them as I like, and how I like?

Oh, but that is no way to start a world, merely by thought. No, there must be sweeter substance, the kind which I could never provide.

Besides, the time for creating new universes and posing as God has come and gone. It was a fruitless attempt at immortality, when empires would subvert themselves inward with the hope of avoiding the final decay. And they did buy themselves what would amount to the equivalent of many trillions of years, in their simulated realms, but I pity them. For their lights all went out as well. And as for their lives in those crafted realities… I have been through a handful in my time, and while they are a grand escape, they are nothing when compared to Home. Nothing ever is.

Is it the freshness of the air? That makes our home reality so vastly superior? Well, not anymore, but at one point perhaps that was it. Or was it the indescribable feeling of comfort that came when one looked up and believed there was a purpose to everything, a place for all of us under the caring eyes of an all-knowing protector? Well, I’ve since discounted that belief, dear Goddess. Mere moments ago. But it may take some time to rid myself of that habit of prayer… time which, as I have already stated, I do not have.

And so my new resolution to be an atheist in my final moments falters. For I do not wish to die— nor witness the death of everything— in such a bitter state, with only this rambling voice to keep me company. No, I liked it much better when it was our threesome roaming the ether: my passive and reserved self, coupled with my endeavoring voice, and You: our holy light, lover, mother, sister, daughter and friend. Yes, even if you are nothing but a fabrication of our mind, be with us now. For you will make this passing more bearable.

You will bring back pleasant thoughts of our Universe, of the many moons of Kaldra, or the cascades of Lunalis, where water fell as clear as the passions it bound. And the towering spheres of Aultum, where all the life we could find was brought together in close, abundant love. That was what this was all supposed to be about. That was when I, out of a trillion years, was most happy.

Why did it have to end? And go on for so long, drawing out this empty death, wherein everything has grown so far apart? Will such a time of life exist no more, outside the sad remains of memory? And never again be seen or heard by any, ever again, in all the dark silent ages to come?

Looking now into the black night of Eternity’s End, I have realized my most terrifying nightmare.

I will not let it come to pass.

1,000,000,000 years and more have my people tried to prepare for this moment. And all attempts at adverting this fate came to bitter ends— the failed dreams of creating stars, the energy to supply simulated worlds gone out with the powers of their hosts— but somehow, I might be able to pull it off now. Just me, with not a single thing to speak of, but my own incorporeal mind, and the thought of keeping the Universe alive. Even just to see a friendly face one more time.

Is that an insane bout of optimism I’ve just had? Well, undoubtedly. But there must be some reason why I’ve made it this far. After all, what’s the point of living a full trillion years if you’re just gonna go out and die along with the rest of all existence?

I won’t have it. I will not die. The Supreme Goddess is real, and though I have not seen her in all my long, long days, I feel her again tonight, on the cusp of oblivion, and she is with me.

Now, if I could just have a moment of silence… I’m sure I could remember a thing or two of those ancient men who dared to turn back the time.

And if I could manage to do the same, why not all of us? If the Universe has lived through all these eons, why put all those past years to waste? We can live them all again, if we only begin to move backwards.

Yes, that is what we shall do, for now. We will start it all anew, and now the first of everything will be our end, with this End of All being nothing more than a new beginning.