Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit: Nothing Comes From Nothing
by Carissa Starr


† "Come now I will tell thee-and do thou hear my word and heed it-what are the only ways of enquiry that lead to knowledge. The one way, assuming that being is and that it is impossible for it not to be, is the trustworthy path, for truth attends it. The other, that not-being is and that it necessarily is, I call a wholly incredible course, since thou canst not recognize not-being (for this is impossible), nor couldst thou speak of it, for thought and being are the same thing.

† "There is left but this single path to tell thee of: namely, that being is. And on this path there are many proofs that being is without beginning and indestructible; it is universal, existing alone, immovable and without end; nor ever was it nor will it be, since it now is, all together, one, and continuous. For what generating of it wilt thou seek out? From what did it grow, and how? I will not permit thee to say or to think that it came from not-being; for it is impossible to think or to say that not-being is. What thine would then have stirred it into activity that it should arise from not-being later rather than earlier? So it is necessary that being either is absolutely or is not. Nor will the force of the argument permit that anything spring from being except being itself. Therefore justice does not slacken her fetters to permit generation or destruction, but holds being firm.

† "It makes no difference to me at what point I begin, for I shall always come back again to this."

~Excerpts from On Nature, by Parmenides of Elea, written circa 475bc


There is No Beginning Only Being

Dust and decay assail the nostrils with a pungence that burns. It is noxious; this scent of death and with it is the flat, lifeless odor of abandonment. The skin has dried and cracked, breaking until it splits with painful rebellion causing the new formed cavities to ooze and fill with congealed fluids; blood, saline, puss, mucus. The irony of loss. Physical deterioration, the destruction of the machine.  But the nebulous 'They'...the Fates, the Pantheon of creators, the Masters of the Universe....GOD; 'They' stripped away life leaving the Ghost behind. The Soul. The Spirit. The raw energy that propelled the machine. And now as the machine rusts and rots the Ghost is trapped and awakened. Aware of the static energy thriving in the dead air around it. The energy threatening to stagnate like the air itself has stagnated, no longer breathable, no longer useful.  

The pain felt now is no physical pain. Nerves have died; the brain, liquified; a dead cell no longer pulsing with synapse. This pain is an unquenchable thirst. A desperation for light in unquestionable darkness. A need for sound within an audial void. It is the need for presence in a state of absolute absence. A need for existence in a state of nothingness.  Of this she is all too aware.

Could she touch existence? Decrepit earth or carved wood, perhaps the caress of satin and lace. Something beyond the black for surely there was& .something.

The hollowness of her senses, this raw deprivation that screamed like a dying angel in the ears of a child deafened the sensitive ears of her soul. Had she a soul? She was soul. Physicality had no place. Matter was no more than a cobweb draped on the wind. Twitching.  Fluttering. The evidence that nothingness did not exist. Proof of reality. That was what the body had been. Proof of reality but not reality itself. Reality existed beyond that. Yes. Reality was something more than the caked clay on her cold, leathery skin.  And the scents? The scents were the perfume clinging to Reality's gown, that heavy earthen monstrosity of fashion beneath which hid Reality's naked form.

Nakedness.  Stripping away all that did not matter. She struggled to shed the fashions of the old world. She did not belong to that world now. Yet the contrived costume hung on her causing a weariness. Shed! Shed the defunct trappings of physicality and move on to being.

Clawing through the shadow. There was no infinity. Even the darkness must end. All things were finite. All things temporary. Reaching, climbing, straining, grasping, knowing that eventually she would brush with the structure of her containment.

What contains you?

She could feel solidity beneath her. Surely this was a new physicality. Surely there were new boundaries. Surely her essence of being had found new ground.

Surely. Surely.

Fingers trailed over the container of self. Crumbling flesh and once ripe curves. Hair clung now like decaying weeds.  Fingers. She could sense those tendrils of flesh, opposable digits that had once spoken to her of form, texture and temperature.  Were they reaching now? How could they be. The Machine had died.  And yet they were reaching. Antenna exploring the emptiness to find matter.

Cold.

Was that what she felt?

Was it?

Cold and wet.

The stench of decaying earth gave way to moisture and a new richness. A freshness like rain.  

Pushing aside the viscera clinging to her unstructured matter, she strained toward the newness. She could feel the aural warmth just beyond the damp, like the sun beating down on a moist spring glen, slowly drying the wetness. It was a vivid wetness that spoke of Genesis not the warm stale wet of expiration. Yes. She could crawl from the tunnel of that mechanical meat into a dawning of preciosity. Propel herself from dark, stale warmth toward something more open, more breathable, more awakening.

First the cold. Then the fresh wetness. Then came too the pain.



*First published in STITCHEDmagazine:The Virgin Issue; May 2006
Copyright © 2006 Carissa Starr | Do not copy, redistribute, or republish without the author's expressed, written permission.