#classpect contrasts

Let’s start with Space.

Space is typically associated with space, matter, creativity, physics, creation, frogs, the universe, mass. Space players also have the job (typically) of breeding the Genesis Frog, the next universe that the players will inhabit and become ‘rulers’ of.

That...doesn’t really tell us much, though, does it? It’s dry and impersonal. So let’s try this:

Space is the birth of everything--the first sparks of a star as nuclear fusion sputters to life in its core, a plant breaking free of its seed for the first time, a chick breaking its shell, a child being born.

Space is thoughts being born inside your head, stories and people that speak and are real in all but truth, entire universes encapsulated in your thoughts and imagination. It’s fairies in the forest and marsh wights and will o’ the wisps, the Fair Folk in the woods and superstitions in the minds of children.

Space is three dimensions, twisting together to create swirling discs of solar systems, stars, galaxies. It’s massive blue stars radiating their light across the universe, and tiny quarks vibrating and working to create the basis of physics as we know it. It’s electrons and neutrons and protons, gravity and the movement of everything in harmony with everything else as the planets circle their sun, which circles the center of the galaxy, which travels through the universe.

But Space is also incredible power, nuclear fusion igniting at the heart of every star. It’s power without an outlet, hanging stagnant and motionless in the skies, created but not ending.

It’s being lost within your own head, so enchanted by what you see that you forget reality; being so captivated by worlds that aren’t real and people that can’t truly talk without being puppets that you forget to live. 

It’s starting projects and dropping them before you finish them, leaving a litter of discarded and broken ideas behind you; it’s a pervading lack of entropy, enforced creation without end; bloated red giants and white and brown dwarfs slowly wasting away, turning from once great stars into barely there charcoal.

It’s a tiny, hot, dense packet in the nothingness and the vast, starry expanse filled with galaxies and stars and nebulae--hung there, unmoving, frozen into a single moment of eternity.

Space is the expanse of the universe, infinite without end, vast beyond comprehension. It’s stars born--but not dying--and constellations, and universes encapsulated in a single thought. It’s being so enchanted by your own thoughts that you forget to live; picking things up and dropping them without thought, discarding what is no longer useful.

Space is creation itself, and is insanely powerful--but while it’s everything that entails, it’s not unstoppable.

Now, let’s talk about Time for a bit.

Time is typically associated with progression, rhythm, continuity, paradoxes, entropy, predestination, timelines, endings, clocks. Except...that doesn’t exactly tell us much, either. It’s still dry and impersonal. So--let’s try this:

Time is constant movement forward, progressing through everything with constancy. It’s a rhythm in the back of your mind, a steady forward movement against everything. Where all else dies, Time continues all the same.

Time is a supernova, a star flaring brilliantly in its death throes, exploding--and collapsing in onto itself, leaving a black hole in its place. It’s neutron stars pairing and spiraling into each other in a deadly dance; it’s empty moons around planets and asteroids impacting; it’s pulsars spinning on their axis in perfect, steady time.

Time is eternities in every second, and seconds in every eternity.

Time is the slow, eventual death of the universe, marching ever onwards.

Time is waking up every morning, knowing that it’s inevitably a new day, and that what is past can’t be changed. It’s knowing that something new will come tomorrow, and living with what is here and now than what is in your head; it’s precise steps and dances, words twisting around each other trying to capture the inevitable, self-fulfilling reality of itself. 

It’s being and being not all at the same time, quantum mechanics at its core. 

It’s also being so lost within loops that you can’t progress, living the same days over and over in useless attempts to change what is--for what has happened cannot be changed without dire consequences.

It’s chaos over order, entropy trickling into every spare crack; it’s a black hole, gobbling up every single star it can get its hands on, sparking off one of the brightest phenomena in the universe. It’s ancient stars and galaxies and quasars, reaching our eyes only now and long, long dead.

It’s fatalism, for what will be cannot be evaded in your eyes. It’s being so stuck in never ending cycles that you lose everything--yourself, your life, everything you ever knew--to the constant, uncaring march of Time.

Space and Time need each other to truly exist--so let’s talk about them in contrast for a moment.

Space is endless infinities, hung in the countless eternities Time spins. Stars being born and dying, the soft glow of a protostar and the brilliant, brief flare of supernovae. 

Space is making something, letting it grow and grow and become it’s own from your hands and hard work; Time is letting it go, knowing the end must come.

Space is the wondering birth of infinities; Time is the quietly ready end of eternities.

Space is laughter and joy, the beginning of something wonderful and new, the horns and drums pushing forward onto the new era. Time is melancholy and readiness, the ending of an era to make way for the new, the flute and violin solo bidding farewell to what was.

Space is the beginning of a story, the opening of a new world, of new places. Time is the ending, the final farewell to beloved characters and familiar places as the story closes.

Space is the new, the child, the curiosity of the young, the successors; Time is the old, the veteran, the understanding and knowledge of the old, the previous generation waiting to pass the torch.

Space is being so lost in your head and the new you lose sight of what is and was, what must be. It’s forgetting to live, lost within fantasy and illusion. Time is being so stuck in what will be, what must be, the end of all things that the now is lost in the constant push forward. It’s regret, a refusal to live, forcing yourself to confront that everything ends, and being so stuck in that never-ending march forward that you lose what it means to exist.

Space is the fabric of reality itself.

Let’s start with Hope, shall we? 

So, Hope is typically associated with potential, belief, optimism, faith, trust, miracles, devotion, wishes, and angels. That doesn’t really tell us much, does it? So let’s try it like this.

Hope is about having faith in others, to do what they feel is right, or needs to be done. Hope is about devoting yourself to someone, to an idea, to a belief, so fiercely that the world bends before you do without good reason. Hope is about trusting that the future holds better things, if you can just hold out one more day. Hope is about looking up at the stars, and thinking, wishing, for what you want most in the universe and the universe twisting around you to make it happen. 

Hope is about angels on shoulders, whispers in your head; good wishes, and sudden recoveries from life threatening injuries; the right things happening at just the exact right time; enemies turning on each other because you needed just a little more time; miraculous, small things happening to just fall into your lap.

Hope is believing that something will happen, must happen, so much that the fabric of reality twists and folds on itself to make it real.

But it’s also a twist of emptiness in your gut, knowing that your friends are strong but you’re not. It’s so much faith in others, in their perceptions, their beliefs--but none in yourself. It’s basing your very self, your image and your actions and your wants in them; relying on them until you’re not you anymore, but a force of belief that shoves your friends onwards and leaves you behind, worn dry and thin and empty, no more belief to be spared. 

It’s believing so much that you’re worthless if you don’t do things the way you’re supposed to, that if you don’t measure up you’re nothing, that you make it true--even if it never really was. It’s getting caught up in what people want you to be, and believing them; forgetting your own beliefs and confidence in the process. 

It’s running ahead, so confident and so trusting that everything will turn out right that you run headlong into danger, into blades unsheathed--that others must leap to your defense, must come between you and danger. It’s rash, and headstrong, and fiercely overconfident.

Hope is dreams and wishes come true, pure belief creating miracles from thin air because you believe so much--but it’s also co-dependence, naïveté, horrible self-worth because so much of you is based in others; rashness and overconfidence, and impulsiveness because you believe so it has to be true.

Hope is pretty, and it’s ugly. It’s not everything, it’s not perfect, it’s not all powerful. Too much Hope is just as bad as too little, and both can create things straight from your very worst nightmares.

Hope is potential used--for good, for bad, for truth and lies, for daydreams and horrific nightmares--and it is potential left to rot.

Hope is belief, and everything that that entails--and it’s fucking scary.

Now, let’s work with Rage for a bit.

Rage is typically associated with determination, passion, anger, defiance, skepticism, resolve, deceit, uncertainty, doubt, drive, realization. But that still doesn’t really tell us much.

Rage is passion--in others, in objects, in hobbies, in things. It’s loving something and coveting it, and wanting it so badly that you’ll do anything to have it, to keep it. It’s loving something so deeply that it makes your heart pound in your chest, makes your blood rush in your ears. 

Rage is anger at everything, at those that harm, that touch and hurt and tear apart everything you strive for. It’s protectiveness and possession, ferocity in your heart and fire in your veins. 

Rage is self-reliance, standing on your own power come hell or high water; it’s forging your own path, making your own way; it’s looking at the easy way out and saying screw that. 

Rage is determination; the drive to make something you want real, to see it through to the end; to force the world to bend to your will through nothing but your own two hands and your resolve to see it done.

Rage is doubting the illusions, is seeing reality and doubting the ones that push you ahead with foolhardy laughter and false promises. It’s skepticism and realism, half-lies and half-truths, defying the world that tells you to be something you aren’t. Rage is cold fury and spite, nails flashing and blood on teeth, and being true to what you are.

Rage is rolling your sleeves up, and saying screw you, I’m going to do this whether you say I can or not, and making the universe bend under your own two hands.

But it’s also pain and fury at an uncaring world, and everyone around you because they do nothing to help you, and you hate them. It’s fighting everything, because you can’t rely on them, can’t rely on anything--it’s false and wrong and lies.

Rage is so much anger and paranoia burning under your skin that you’re left tired and aching and afraid, half-lies and half-truths bitter on your tongue. It’s blood in your eyes and fire in your veins, hatred for everything that everyone stands for because you’re so sick of caring about anything.

Rage is resolve and passion, love and drive and pushing others to do their best--and it’s hatred and pain and fury, wrapped up in bitterness and refusal to rely on anyone because they’ll just lie to you anyway. It’s lashing out and and blood on your hands and metal in your mouth, and just not caring anymore because why should you give a damn?

Rage is protectiveness and resolve to do what needs to be done, and it’s blood in the dark and bitter vengeance. It’s not evil, it’s not wrong, it’s not perfect either. Too much Rage kills just as much as too little, and both create nightmares.

Rage is action outwards at any end--good or bad, justice or vengeance--and inwards--good or bad, pain or rage, jealousy or protection. 

So, let’s put this side by side simply, for a bit. Hope is not perfect and all-good and everything--and neither is Rage horrible and no-good and evil.

They’re two sides of a coin that can only exist with the other. 

If Hope didn’t exist, didn’t mean belief and faith and trust, then Rage wouldn’t really mean doubt and resolve and passion. Neither one is good or evil, they just are.

We need both, because without belief we can’t trust others to lighten our burdens--and without independence and resolve, we can’t do anything on our own, push anything forwards.

Hope is believing in something so much that reality folds to make it real; Rage is rolling up your sleeves and saying screw you, I’m going to make it real.

But Hope is also being tired and dry and worn thin, believing so hard in others that you have none left for yourself, unable to do anything on your own because you don’t trust yourself; and Rage is also being bitter and cold and alone, so fierce and independent and driven that you’ve forgotten how to believe, unable to rely on others because you can’t trust anyone but yourself.

Hope is potential, and Rage is action.