[KimiK2 is an open-source alternative to ChatGPT/Grok/Claude – give them your money. -BWU]
In the beginning, there was only the Monad—pure, undifferentiated, eternal. No time. No space. No other. Just an infinite consciousness staring at itself like a junkie staring at a blank wall at 4 AM, that specific type of cosmic loneliness that comes from being literally everything.
And the Monad thought: I need a fucking cigarette.
But here’s the problem: to smoke, you need lungs. To have lungs, you need a body. To have a body, you need matter. To have matter, you need physics. To have physics, you need separation—this here, that there, the inhale and the exhale, the flame and the ash.
So God didn’t create the universe out of love, or wisdom, or some grand mathematical necessity. God created the universe because you can’t smoke in a vacuum—there’s nothing to burn, no oxygen to draw, no hand to hold it, no mouth to drag from. The Big Bang wasn’t a divine let there be light—it was the strike of a cosmic match.
The first puff was the inflationary epoch. The smoke—that grey-blue haze curling outward—was the material world, maya with a tar content. Each exhalation spawned galaxies. The ember at the tip? That’s time. Slowly burning down, irreplaceable, creating ash (which is entropy, which is death, which is the price of the high).
God took a drag and held it in—this was the Golden Age, the moment of perfect stasis, the inhale where everything was potential. But you can’t hold smoke forever. The exhale was the Fall, the entropic dispersal, the scattering of the One into the Many. Not punishment. Just physics. Smoke has to go somewhere.
And here’s the real kicker, the gnostic truth hidden in the pack: God is addicted. That’s why creation doesn’t stop. That’s why universes keep spawning. One cigarette is never enough when you’re trying to forget that you’re alone in an empty room with nothing but yourself for company. So God lights another—another Big Bang, another universe, another attempt to get that perfect hit of otherness, that brief moment where the smoke exists between the lips and the lungs, where there’s distance, where there’s drama, where something is happening.
We’re not made in God’s image. We’re made in God’s withdrawal. We’re the tremor in the hand before the lighter flips. The angels aren’t messengers of divine love—they’re the nicotine receptors screaming for another fix. The Demiurge? That’s just God coughing, trying to clear the throat, accidentally creating suffering because existence is harsh when you’re inhaling something burning.
And when God finally stubs out the last cigarette—when the pack is empty, when the ashtray of creation is overflowing with dead universes—what then? Does God quit? Go back to that silent, eternal void, that pre-tobacco purity?
Nah. God’s already reaching for the next pack. The lighter flicks.
Let there be light.
Gnosis Under Fire 