If the ancients in their worship of mother earth, earth godesses, etc had known about the actual size of the universe, would they come to the conclusion that it was a mother universe with us snug and secure in the womb of it, full and safe in empty space?
For its size is such that it shocks the human senses, it's a scale by which we can be measured and found less than insignificant. It is the boundless whole, the empty void of pre-creation in itself, frighteningly empty, and we are only its microscopic germs on the backs of microscopic germs, unbelievably miniscule, an infestation of atoms invisible in the grasping, touching, enormously vast stretch of empty and starlit space. Speaking for myself and my little human race, for my planet and its neighbours, for my little spiral galaxy- that is, speaking as a microscopic speck on an infinitesimally minute dot- what can actually be said that is not made meaningless, in the actual, as opposed to the apparent, scheme of things? The universe laughs at us because we are a speck, and we strive, and do not laugh with it. Which begs the question why do we strive, why do we bother, we insects, we germs, kicking and biting against one another, for brief and temporary reasons. This is not mysticism, this is not the voice of metaphysics. These conclusions were arrived at by the route of cold scientific fact, that droning voice so arrogantly brought home to us over the whole course of our lives, insisting on its own superiority, oblivious to the fact that by starting out to explain everything they have ended by explaining (in human terms at least) nothing.
Of course, in the wider scheme of things it doesn't matter. I am a speck on a speck on a speck, creation's aborted consciousness.
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