God is dead

Instead of a cat, imagine Schroedinger put God in that box.

Simultaneously dead, like Nietzsche said, and at one and the same time risen to redeem us all with eternal life.

Not a cat, not some genie in a lamp, not some misappropriated anthropomorphic myth to twist in our distracted imaginations, but God. In a box. That box.

We open the box. We roll the stone away from the sepulchre. And what do we find?

Emptiness. The void within us. Exposed, confronted by us, and collapsing to spare us the knowledge of its nothingness, folded into all the multiple configurations we can impose on nothingness without contradicting ourselves. All the paths we can travel without encountering our dreaded doppelgangers, meeting ourselves walking in the opposite direction, away from Damascus and back to the quiet life we left forever to pursue this physics.

The quantum origami of the Book of Life: "God is dead" just means both God and death exist, as points of view, as ways of seeing deep inside the shadows of our own tomb. As ways of opening the box.

We may stack that emptiness according to some principle that excludes the void and builds a world in its place to which we can put our shoulder, or pack it up inside itself over and over again, indefinitely, to trap it. Just so many fermions and bosons.

But we are inside the box. And we are outside too, opening it. Because otherwise there is no box. Nothing can contain nothing. We are the observer and the observed, and we are marooned from ourselves forever by this false dichotomy, stranded in the illusion of time thinking our fireside yarns are real, our elaborate, engrossing fictions that protect us from the superficial flat and empty world.