You stand on the edge of the abyss. Arrogant, perverse, and beautiful. You are plotting to insert that delicate pink finger of yours right into the cosmosâ most destructive funnel.
You donât want safety. It bores you. Lukewarm tea, Saturday night TV, whispered âI love yousâ under the duvetâleave that for the cowards. You want something else. You want to pleasure the universe. You want to reach deep into the dark and feel the infinite clench tight around your finger.
Do you know what awaits you? Physicists call it spaghettification. Gravity doesnât ask questions, and it has no safeword. It pulls you in with such force that your cells scream as they stretch, and your atoms are drawn out into a single, long strip. But it is exactly this danger that fuels you. You arenât interested in pleasure; you are interested in annihilation.
Why do we do this?
Because we are flawed. We want to lick the socket that shocks us. The black hole is just like that toxic relationship you canât leave. Or the business deal that ruins you. There swirls the nothingness before you, devouring light and time, and you step up with your petty earthly desires. You think if you reach inside, it will lick you back.
I have to disappoint you, darling: the black hole doesnât get wet.
It wonât appreciate your technique. It wonât whisper in your ear, âYes, just like that.â The black hole is simply hungry. It will take your finger, your arm, and eventually that miserable soul you thought was immortal.
And yet, you reach out.
Because the pain is at least real. When you feel gravity peeling the flesh from your bones, you finally know you are alive. In this sterile, padded world, destruction is the only thing left that offers ecstasy.
So go ahead. Stick it in. Just donât be surprised when the infinite bites back.
It is only by fingering the void that you truly understand: nothingness has the tightest grip.