Begun like all adventures with a bang, all space, all time, even this instant now, explodes from nought into forever, an exceptionally lucky diamond pool-break.

Against all odds, had this explosion happened differently, we have a cosmos capable of forming solar systems, planets, life. Of forming us, to witness everything.

This is the strong anthropic principle: sentient life appears to be what all existence is contrived to engineer, the point of all these atoms, nebulae and conflagrations.

A midnight snow-globe flecked with novas, happening all at once in four dimensions. All time, even time’s end, caught within this glittering, endless, hyper-moment.

Our consciousness, a startling outgrowth of the universe, is possibly the most important part, the fraction of existence that can think, feel, marvel at itself.

We are all spacetime’s sensory organs, spacetime’s mind, our thoughts and lives naught but the three-dimensional, material expression of its blazing and immortal soul.

This jewel of being, big bang flared at one end, big crunch at the other, simultaneous, all going on right now, a perfect frozen fire.

The world is young, our most remote ancestors not yet born. The world is old, and we have all been dead for decades, centuries.

Don’t you remember?

Complex, self-organizing life somehow emerges from the boiling clay of spacetime. Pin-sparks of awareness dust its countenance, plankton imperatives and moss agendas. Lungfish dreams.

The big bang never ended.

All things, every star, each world, each species, everything we make or do or think, all part of its continuing eruption.

Here we stand for our brief moment, amidst the blaze and thunder, marveling as fire streamers from the blast sprout fins, flamingo feathers, chrysler buildings.

All things are precipitated by the nature of existence. Nothing, therefore, is unnatural, be it bee-hive or termite mound or all our shining, poisoned cities.

Everything is universe. Everything is holy, life and consciousness creation’s rarest embers. Our caduceus DNA, a brilliant flaw, twists through this starry, four-dimensional jewelled orrery.

And all of us, the lifesnake’s myriad contingencies, embroiled in three dimensions, suffering time’s illusion, fear our end, don’t understand each second is eternal, here forever.

Our lives are bubbles, decades wide, suspended in eternity, each hour immortal.

Triumphs, heartbreaks, heaven, hell. Paradise everlasting. Endless punishment.

No instant ever dies. Live joyfully.

Live well.

Live knowing that you are already dust, long gone, already outside time and looking in, reviewing life, finally understanding every déja vu, your own guardian angel. Know that the scorched-black demons and the pristine, fluttering seraphs are in some sense naught but you yourself unpacked, unfolded in a higher space from whence the myriad gods unfurl, not bygone legends but your once and future selves, your attributes blossomed into their purest and most potent symbol-forms.

And these, with all their beast-heats, crowns and lightings, all their different colors, are become combined into the single whiteness that is godhead. That is All.

This, then is revelation. All is one, and all is deity, this beautiful undying fire of being that is everywhere about us; that we are.

O man, o woman, know yourself, and know you are divine.

Respect yourself, respect the least phenomenon of your existence as it were the breath of god.

Know that our universe is all one place, a single firelit room, all time a single moment. Know that there has only ever been one person here.

Know you are everything, forever.

Know I love you.

- Promethea, #31, p 6-8, Alan Moore.