There came a time for time to be,
And for an unknown reason,
Or simply the absence of one,
A lump of hot primordial pudding or something,
jumpstarted the universe into being, for whatever that means.
That's what I was told anyway.
After some time dictionaries came to be on this not so particularly special rock, which were meant to connect words with meaning, or so were they told.
But dictionaries did a poor job there, as the creatures that invented them didn't have a clue what meaning and purpose is in the first place.
Yet they were the ones that invented them too, probably as means of comfort for their existence and survival.
That comfort was almost always fictitious though, as purpose was also.
The Universe, by now, was just spinning lumps of rocks and matter, why would it need something as primal as these creatures' purpose?
They called it time, yes.
Mixing around the universal soup, with a spoon which was nowhere to be found.
Whoever was making this soup was a terrible cook though.
What idiot would want that much rocks in his teeth?
Anyhow, rock after rock,
those dictionary creatures started thinking they they thought, and that's where it all went bottoms up.
They were creating more of them all the time too, or at least that's what they called it, reproduction.
But little did they know, this (re)production of theirs would make no difference whatsoever to the soup's taste.
Their reproduction involved exchanging fluids between two specimens to make a new one out of a countless possible ones.
You see, many factors like time, place, what opposite specimen would one choose out of millions at that particular time and what those specimens have ingested that morning, or did they simply spill their previous load on the floor, played part in this most improbable lottery where a spawn spawned into existence and all other possible ones went down the drain, just like that. The most cruelest of fate did these creatures had with their reproduction, but not any less cruel as the rest of the universe.
On a sweaty midsummer evening, in an insignificant place and in an insignificant time on the rock these creatures called their own, in a little shack, all was set for the reproduction lottery to happen yet again.
A single protein cell made it to the egg, which whom from now on we will call Billy as that is the name his makers gave him. Most of his Billy-brothers and Billy-sisters never had the chance to even form as protein cells, but most unfortunate were the least in numbers; The ones that were so close, together with Billy in grasping existence, just got spilled around or inside the parents genitals - or just on the ground, never seeing daylight like Billy will. Their existence just ceasing there and then. Not such a happy life story, huh. Some might argue all of them were half-Billies, which really, makes it even worse. You might even argue that Billy becomes Billy at the moment of his first breath, and becomes more Billy as years go by, and memory sticks to his existence in a single thread of time. That is also true, but in that case, do I choose my fate or is it already chosen for me? - asked Billy. From future old dying Billy's perspective, everything is firm and single in his life. Everything is written and done. But was it already like that for Billy's parents? Would Billy be anyway? Is everything we see as random, already done, simply because the path is one? Those were the questions that bothered Billy through his life. One day he would see the world as his own for the taking, sunny and free, a world waiting for Billy, and other days were gloomy and Billy wouldn't think or decide anything, simply because he thought it was already decided.
A mediocre and simple life Billy had, with some ups and downs and a few non-Billy events, with a job he did for the food he ate and the home he had. Billy said that he enjoyed life. There were times when he didn't want his life and wanted to prove to everything that he can do whatever he likes and decides, and take his life, but wouldn't that still be fate? So he thought that life is always worth it, because without it, there is nothing. It's empty. There is no Billy. So multiple times, Billy came to the conclusion that he could just go Billying around until there is Billy.
Billy was a kid, went through school and all that, and Billy asked:
Why am I? Why?
Billy went on to be an adult and had his struggles and fun, and Billy asked:
Why am I? Why?
Billy was 30, met a girl he liked and she got pregnant, and Billy asked:
Why are we? Why?
Billy was 50, with his kid grown now with questions of his own, and they both asked:
Why am I? Why am I? Why?
Billy was 70, with his wife, his kids, and even grandkids now, and he asked again:
Why am I? Why?
Billy was dead, with his legacy ahead, for a few years, yet still there, remembered.
And Billy did not ask again.
His wife held his life to her thoughts most, until she died too.
Their kids mourned them most, and remembered them often, until they died too.
The grandkids knew Billy only when he was aged, kept his memory fond, of their childhood days.
Billy's youth was lost, his adulthood too, and now it's time for his elderhood, as the grandkids die too.
Billy is now a picture in his grandgrandkids' attic, and a name they know, they've sometimes heard, of a time long gone behind them.
Billy is now a story, rarely mentioned, until all the storytellers die too.
Billy is now gone, except for some factual data in an archive somewhere, a number in history, a stack of bones slowly decomposing.
The future becomes history, Earth goes around the Sun still.
Until humans are something else, or simply no more.
And all have left Earth, until the Earth is no more.
Scorched by the Sun, the Sun is gone too.
And the Universe goes on, until it does no more.
Long past, long long past, long after the Universe is dead;
And nothing is all there is;
An echo is there, an echo is heard.
The whole of nothing trembles and as loud as it can in nothing answers: