There were two of us. We were both attempting the world’s first parachute jump from space. We leapt, in our pressurised space suits, from some unknown platform toward the earth: it looked like a giant glass marble in front and beneath us; the sun was shining over the top of it, to the right – the yellow white rays really stung my eyes.

The initial jump wasn’t really like jumping at all. My heart rate was reasonably normal. We fell slowly, presumably in a weak outer band of Earth’s gravity. Falling through the planetary atmosphere was strange, though. As I hit it, I keeled over to my left. My legs hadn’t fully penetrated it so I landed sideways on it, or in it, and sunk slowly through. It looked like colourful river scum: the kind you might find gathering at the mouth of a river gate. It was thickish, liquidy, and resembled the surface of Jupiter in colour and pattern: mostly beige, red, yellow, and white thin diamond patchwork. Sinking into it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though, as it was airy: more like a foam than a liquid. I fell softly through it and held my breath as it reached the visor of my helmet, forgetting I had my own air supply. As I fell through the strange substance I remember feeling as though I was entering the stomach of some huge animal: there was something very organic, even biological about the atmosphere I was passing through. When I reached the end of it, I fell through. And I mean I fell through.

Now I was really falling. I could see the planet’s oceans, a coastline, and tiny clouds several miles beneath me. I began to get the rush of a sky dive. My heart sprinted and it seemed like my eyes would pop with the sheer size of the ocean beneath me. The constant falling sensation was making me delirious but at the same time was exhilarating. It was at this point I wondered, it seemed I hadn’t been told, whether I had to release my parachute myself or if it was automatic. I looked down at the front of my suit and saw an emergency release chord tucked into a canvas housing down my chest. Then, suddenly, the parachute was released. I looked outward across the sky and saw my dive buddy, his parachute also released, wheeling in an arc across the sky not too far from me. For a moment I thought we’d crash into each other but I swung by within forty of fifty feet then turned my back on him and began to concentrate on the landing. The fall was incredibly quick: I was expecting it to last minutes but it only seemed to last seconds. Almost immediately I was crashing into the ocean. It’s texture was like layer upon layer of thin glass as I sunk into it.

I looked around for my buddy. Inexplicably he had landed very close by. He disengaged his chute and swam over and we made a wild, slightly panicky scan for land. There was an island and we made our way toward it, eventually standing on it’s gravelly shore looking out across the giant planetary lake we had just made our entrance into.

And that was the end of the dream.

Oddly, an impression came with it. It occurred to me – just as I woke up – that movement, just like physical objects and the varying energy frequencies (such as microwave, radio, and light), is comprised only of energy. That physical movement, from A to B, as we understand it in a Newtonian universe, doesn’t actually occurr.

An example came to me. Imagine a multicoloured checkered landscape. Imagine a multi-faceted diamond (say with one hundred finely chiseled and flat reflective surfaces) floating in that landscape.

The way physical, non-Newtonian movement was represented to me was to imagine that the diamond remained still and fixedly located within the landscape. However, were it to turn on its axis in any given direction the multiple facets of it’s surface would reflect a different combination (and of varying size) of the coloured checkerboard landscape, thereby appearing to have located itself elsewhere along the landscape plane. The landscape will not have changed, though, and nor will the actuality of the diamond: nothing but the reflections given of the surrounding landscape in the multiple facets of the diamonds surface.

Could this apply to all objects in space? Are we, and all things, actually located at exactly the same location (we’ll get onto time ‘later’, I’m sure) always, only appearing to physically travel through the recalibration of our axis. Of course, to us, that recalibration results in the illusion of travel: it would have to represent itself to us somehow. In our limited perception of what is around us, there has to be some illusion of seperateness or our limited brain functions couldn’t cope.

Everything is energy, buzzing at different frequencies. What’s more is that our physical universe, at a quantum level, is perpetually unsure exactly where it is located: if anywhere at all. Bertrand Russell mused that the closer he inspected his writing desk, the less and less he knew about it, until the only conclusion he could positively draw from the examination was that it wasn’t actually there at all.

This pertains to my theory, for if there is no physical existance at a fundamental level, then there can be no distance. If there is no distance, our appearance of travel, velocity, the Newtonian sense of a moving body, can only be the recalibration of a single instance of observation (the diamond) to appropriate the energy around it in any given combination it sees fit, according to the agenda of its conscious effort.

So anyway, that happened. Now I’m off to have some birthday beers with some buddies. Have a nice day 🙂 And please feel free to comment (or not, as the case may be).

Post Scriptum: Of course, this would mean that the universe occupies zero space or has zero mass. If we were to imagine that there were no time, either (I’ll expand on this later), then this would presuppose zero space and zero time. The enormous intricacies of the apparent universe contained in a…. nothing.