The doorway opens to reveal a short, red corridor. On the other side, a rough-hewn stone path guides you through a small garden to another set of doors. Opening them, you step over the sill and find yourself in a large room with a vaulted ceiling. Other than the light that flows in behind you, the room seems almost completely dark. You are just able to make out a solitary figure standing in the centre.
The man does not acknowledge your arrival; he appears to be rehearsing a monologue. You lean against a wall and listen quietly.
I am talking about something, for what is the alternative? I cannot reference anything that "is not", for it would invariably bear some significance and therefore constitute something that "is". If the thing I point to has no significance, how can I be said to have pointed at it? How can I even say "it", for that affirms it as present, singular, and perceived. My awareness is characterised by "is", the flood of existence swallows me whole.
"What is" is omnipresent and inescapable, everything I know invariably falls within the breadth of Being. I cannot claim otherwise, for by definition I cannot identify any alternative to Being. The claim that something is independent from Being or beyond Being… such words are just incoherent strings, they do not point away from Being. This omnipresent ontology necessarily consumes all facets of my experience; I cannot tear myself away from the complete, inescapable, and all-subsuming Whole!
I have heard it said that if one stands on a different planet, they may use a lever to shift this one. Yet there is no location beyond Being where I may retreat, no externality I might leverage to influence or alter "what is". The dominance of Being is so complete that the slightest hint of independence is reduced to incoherent gibberish. There is no alternative to Being, no way out of this all-subsuming context of existence.
I must therefore reject the suggestion that things might be more or less real. For there is no alternative substance that might be intermixed or otherwise introduced to dilute the purity of "what is". Wherever you point, there it is, pure and untainted. Being is perfectly poured, constituting all information in an absolute sense. An omnipresent and perfect Whole; whatever is possible is rendered necessary.
Where did Being come from, where will it go? Such questions are absurd! Every conceivable location, every conceivable arrangement, it is all within its breadth. What was it, and what will it become? These questions similarly devolve into incoherence. Ontologically, if I say that what-is will become "something else", I am referencing the "something else" as though it is separate from what-is. Yet there is no alternative to existence, no external "something else" that might be sought beyond the "is". Further, what will become of what was? For the initial arrangement had significance, and that significance is necessarily preserved by the ontological flood that swallows even the notion of alternative.
Any chronology must exist in a complete state, the continuum is secure in the context of Being. Every particular arrangement of things has significance, and therefore all such information exists. The ball at the top of a hill and the ball at the bottom of a hill are two distinct arrangements, yet to create or destroy arrangements is no less incoherent than to create or destroy any other modicum of significance. The permanent ball is smeared across the entire surface of the permanent hill. I must confess that change is a limited and relative phenomenon, fastened in place by chains of necessity.
I am subsumed by Being, am I not? So my existence is permanent and secure. I will live forever, I cannot be destroyed. There is no alternative, I am invincible, no force can shift me from my place. Strike me down! I am still there, I remain where you saw me! You, my aggressor, you are still by my side! Stop struggling, even the gods cannot fight against necessity!
You are distracted from the monologue by the sound of a door creaking open. Light begins to flood into the room from the far end, and you can make out a figure standing there. This new person signals for you to approach. He then begins to speak...
Come, let me show you something more specific. As interesting as you might find my brother, he has a one-track mind. He didn't notice your arrival and he won't notice your departure. He sees what-is, but he has hardly begun to delineate its complex constitution. He is more than human and less than human.
As you ponder his words, you notice another corridor leading out of the room. A barely illuminated sign reads "Canteen". Thoughts of lamb soup force their way into your mind.