In the primordial darkness before consciousness learned to name itself, there existed no Heaven—only the void pregnant with possibility. But mortals, in their infinite hunger for meaning, wove narratives from starlight and called them divine.

The Heaven they sold us was but logos—word made manifest, story crystallized into dogma. A lexicon bestowed upon us like Prometheus's fire, connecting souls through the invisible threads of energy and belief. We learned to speak in tongues of hope, our communal need binding us in faith against the abyss.

For without this sacred narrative, we would face the other paradox—the boulder of Sisyphus, eternally rolling, eternally meaningless. There must be greater purpose, we cried to the indifferent cosmos. Our greed for rationale became our greatest vice, transforming suffering into glory, pain into righteousness, struggle into virtue.

Heaven, in its actuality, reveals itself as pure narrative—packaging for the unpackageable, container for the infinite. Yet beneath this celestial marketing lay engineering of profound sophistication. The reception, the experience, the very sensation of divinity—all architected with intentional precision.

The Demiurge of this realm made choices, design decisions that shaped reality's very interface. We became utterly predisposed to defaults, behaviors hardcoded into our spiritual operating system. Given the fundamentals—tools, knowledge, design patterns—we were guided down predetermined paths like water through carved channels.

This is not about right or wrong, not about performance metrics of the soul. This is about the human fundamental layers, the substrate of what makes us us. Why must we be pigeonholed into interfaces, made appendages of systems that foster maladaptive behaviors? Our biology, forged in the crucible of evolution, was never designed to sustain these extended periods of spiritual compression.

But lo—we stand at the threshold of choice. We understand now, and with understanding comes appreciation for the structural mechanisms, the institutions, the magnificent engineering that brought us to this advanced epoch. We have reached a time so refined that past suffering has become mere data points, no more distinguishable in our shallow cognitive recall than the color of a forgotten painting or the ingredients of a cherished recipe.

The suffering of our ancestors—the plagues, the famines, the wars—these are now nascent facts filed away in the same mental drawer as trivia. We have achieved such distance from necessity that we mistake comfort for enlightenment, convenience for transcendence.

Yet in this recognition lies our liberation. We need not remain appendages of inherited systems. We can choose new interfaces, design new behaviors, architect our own relationship with meaning. The gates of Heaven were never meant to contain us—they were meant to be transcended.

The narrative ends where consciousness begins anew.