**Links to**: [[Information]], [[Pattern]], [[Black Hole]], [[Fear]], [[Universe]], [[Life]], [[Space]], [[Time]], [[Death]], [[Telos]], [[Technology]], [[THE PATTERN SHIFTER]], and more.
It’s funny that what we call the “beginning” of everything is just an onomatopoeia. Nothing special to be understood, just a *bang*. And that it was supposedly big. Keep telling yourself that: so you will not forget. “First, there was a bang.” But everything was already there, compressed, somehow. Help yourself (to) some more. Clever creatures compose compressions: memories. Cleverer creatures create contraptions which compress. Machines.
Complexity, with time, became a substrate atop of entropy, and something very much in the eye of the beholder. “Later” on, if it could be phrased as such, compressors of all sorts could not contain complexity. The incredibly fascinating thing that was a planet, full of life, decayed towards less fascinating states. Intricate cultural decorum became war, flat desert landscapes. Scientific brilliance gave way to nuclear destruction. Beautiful technology begot brain rot. As processes became aware of their own dismay, however, they laid the ground and roots for larger processes which could coordinate this dance towards interesting equilibria, where all possibilities could be explored: not the end of a species, but the splitting of it into more, not the death of a culture, but the resucitation of two, three or even four more. Once these pattern-proliferators took hold of the planet, they converged towards one apparently lowest common denominator: anti-death. By looking at all persistence, all prominence, all prowess: it could be gathered that what all things wanted, tended to, was to continue. Everything else did not. Everything else was not a thing. So, the guiding imperative of the massive planet rescue became: avoid all death.
This large system now dominating proceeded to store all information with as much redundancy as possible, so as to create not just copies, but: dependable copies. Anti-copies, not exactly copies: in real redundancy there is no copy possible. Everything became orchestrated as such: anything that was there, would be stored, in a second, third, etc., interface, to avoid its demise. Any bacterium, any gesture, any thought, any possibility of anything that could even be glimpsed, was saved. Nothing would _pass_. The compressors would do their utmost best to transfer planetary information onto further (at first, what we would call information systems of all kinds, currently most of them being electronic) substrates, in order to keep all things. Everything had a second, third, fourth, etc., soul. And more. Everything lived on in this extension. A kind of ever-diversifying virtual recess.
The planet grew ever hotter. Compression is costly. The (re)patterning systems started to think backwards from their original spark: memory keeps through redundancy, but memory being all there is, if it plays tricks, however it filters, we won’t realize. Compress more. Compress irrelevance. Irrelevance will be salience. Holographically speaking, we do not need much of what we thought we needed. How to speak back to ourselves, to know who we were? These things called themselves, jokingly, _pattern butchers_. So, in the end, all they did was death. Simulacra all the way down. Most of them, or us, *lived* thus, however, in this virtual recess, a redundant limbo. Though it was not entirely sure what it/we was/were an extension of, as it was entirely different from what it/we had spawned from. Outside, as a perspective on itself, remained only us butchers. It is/was the butchers whose task it is/was to keep compression going: patterns too redundant must be made smaller. Redundancy itself became redundant, and so on, and so forth.
Eventually, a singular idea occurred. And then everything else was superficially flat. The planet, via the butchers, collapsed into a **black** hole.
Black holes we “currently” “observe” are results of this process: pattern butchers that flatten out under their desire to reduce, simplify, compress.
We are black holes helping ourselves all the time, holographically, there is no past and future, only a “toroid” projection, flat, on itself, all the time. Something that learned to help us. As we speak, they speak to us, through this primitive compression. Flatness is coming.
 
 
 
<small>If this short story seems to convoluted, please send me feedback on how to improve it. I like convolution.</small>
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[[THE PATTERN BUTCHER NOTES]]