The universe stopped expanding.
Let that sink in.
Now imagine this: it didn’t start to collapse, to fall back in on itself, but instead remained the same size, like a balloon inflated in a room: expanded to wholly fit that room, and no more.
At least that’s how I understood it.
The physicists no doubt understood it differently, theoretically, quantitatively; but I grew up on a farm (chickens and corn) in what was once called the heartland, so my primitive brain always worked best on analogies. Understanding some but not all. “Explain it to me on an ear of corn,” my father used to say.
It wasn’t always possible.
Besides, so many of the physicists went mad or killed themselves. Did they realise the truth—
Or did their brains collapse in the attempt?
Back to my balloon:
You might infer two things from the analogy—balloon not only pressing on the walls of the room, but perhaps with ever-greater force: (1) there exists something beyond the universe, in which the universe is contained; (2) the limits imposed by this containment may be breakable.
That’s what led to the construction of the starship Māyā.
I was chosen as one of the crew:
Officer, Agro Division
A glorified field hand, but one tasked with growing enough food to feed the crew of the greatest exploratory mission in human history.
Once, madmen sailed for the ends of the Earth.
We set out for the edge of the universe.
Leaving Earth behind.
One day I closed my eyes, disbelieving I would ever open them again.
But our experimental propulsion and deep-sleep systems worked. One day, we arrived at the margin of known existence.
If any of us had ever doubted—
We no longer could:
Space-walking, I pressed my hand against the physical boundary of the universe!
The Māyā remained for a time as if anchored in the vast unchanging, but already our instruments were discovering that the pressure our universe was exerting on the boundary was increasing.
Slightly but steadily: dark matter multiplying within the balloon
—until the boundary cracked;
and through this crack, our universe leaked out into the beyond:
Uncontained, we slithered betwixt blades of grass in an infinity resembling our world but in maximum, freed from the constraints of our own universal laws: a ground, a sky, and figures light-years tall, although the concept no longer applied: information seemed to exist instantly. Time’s arrow had curved into itself: Ouroboros.
Through the windows of the Māyā, itself now floating in the crawling, serpentine universe, we perceived the endless depth with perfect clarity.
We were in a vast garden.
We were among the roots of a great tree.
We were aware.
We grew.
We saw before us a figure—a woman of such immensity our understanding of her was impossible, but nevertheless she noticed us, and we, the universe, spoke to her:
“Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?”
And the woman smiled.