Artifact ♦️ Notes on Black Holes

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Second Dimension

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Spaghettification happens in stages.

First, you're looking at this little black dot.

It's a marble, it's an ink blot, it's whatever familiar sphere suits you. Sometimes it's truly enormous—as big as stars—but don't worry; even a star-sized black hole remains stable until you get within ten miles of it. The radius of their influence isn't all that wide. A marble-sized black hole must be touched, at an infinitesimal, planck-distance from you, before it can pull you in.

But ah well.

Who wants to live safe?

You touch it anyway.

Damn it, you never should've touched it—but you did.

So here we go.

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Second step. You become keenly aware you're made of cellular stuff. Star stuff. It's like all those little bits of you flick into the exact same superposition and oscillate. You wake up to who and what you are.

Okay, if that already sounds like too much, just think of it like every fiber of your body is vibrating on that perfect chord of a guitar. It's like that, but not exactly. It's an orchestral harp, pinged to identify with your current atoms, your current particles, which will soon straighten and simplify tremendously, like a increasingly slowing song, playing out from the center of you.

With the chord running through you,

you are more awake than you've ever been.

That part feels good, so good, you eventually feel ready to simplify yourself again. Your music slows, and slows, and you're okay with it. You come to terms with how you're reducing from a code of complex information, into the information itself.

As long as the black hole stories the algorithm for your sense of self, the DNA of your soul, you can always be reconstructed. You can reconstruct building blocks in the same house, over and over, no matter how many times you know it down.

You're spinning like a spindle top without a centering point.

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The third stage is the biggest cognitive leap for you to make.

You feel like the space between your molecules is made out of elastic, like it can stretch around. It's uncomfortable. (You're being stretched, after all.) I'd say your whole body becomes a slinky, but that's not quite right.

This should upset you, yet your brain is good with it, because you feel so damn good from those vibrations earlier; these existential stretches are a small price to pay, and you already knew you were going to pay something, because you touched the damn ink blot, that little son-of-a-marble.

At the height of your first a stretch, you're shaped like a wide C, kind of like your whole being is smiling at everyone, everything.

Of course you're smiling big and wide.

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