My father loved 8's. Numbers like 35, or 134, he'd relish. Licence plates, addresses, train or ship cabin numbers, dates, anything when added together culminating in an 8. Like his birth date: 26 August,1927. Dad's (2+6th=8)+(August=8)=16, which is 1+6=7, added to (1+9)+(2+7)=19, and 1+9=10, which added to 7 equals 17, which adds to 8! Dad had an emotional dependency on numerology; I remain interested. Yet on and on I keep up my father's habit, ad infinitum. But...
Infinitely? We bandy the word. We use the figure eight as infinity's representation (iconographic as it is,) a lopsided: OO; or a straight: 8. We advance ourselves as infinite too, "...or what's a heaven for?" Of hell itself we hope for a back door, an exit, or at least some definite end in the fires (ugh! shiver!) But of Heaven there be the pervasive concept that it be never-ending (or at least that those we love, who 'went on before', are indeed still there, waiting.) Hard to let go.
Infinity is forever. Theories abound. The notion that we continue in paralleled-beings to all of the choices we did not make, that our 'other selves' perpetuate as if we actually made that 'other choice', or that there are parallel universes, like trillions of mirrors in which our every action is but a holographic realization within the immediate purview of our own consciousness at times, and mostly a momentum of the unconscious, makes for fascinating reading (for some). Most of us don't care or have time enough to make the effort to read Theory. We prefer Fact. Yet there are multiple religions and multiple contentions and multiple adherents and multiple view-points, ad infinitum (?), throughout history that have seriously, ineluctably, and even drastically affected the (mis)fortunes of mankind. Esoteric and intellectual references are, after all, not really infinite, ha! (No matter how many we add.) Yet interwoven in our general ethos the collective symbols of the eights of infinity are continuous loops that would have us reincarnated, being forever an identity, being always available to someone or other in some form or other as 'oneself.' Even the concept of giving of oneself, even in death as myriads of dispersed atoms, surely, never ends?
We can hardly let go. The concept of death as an END does not meet easily with us. (It certainly did not agree with Tutankhamen.) It abides in the very concept of anno domini (the year of our [living] lord). And certainly the soul's ongoing identity is given voice in multiple belief systems and religions. It is not easy to let go. And so? When does one let go? If infinity is a forever continuous looping (in which one may see one's conscious existence as perhaps the brief crossover point in the twists) we may make the heuristic symbol solipsistic, multi-dimensional, ad infinitum, such that every loop in each eight, like a kazillion indefinite balls of intersecting loops, touch at the tips and impel us on and on, indefinitely. Perhaps being tired of one identity we assume another, as in reincarnation, where if not a worm or a pig or a butterfly or a gazelle we might at least be a different sex, have a different station in life, and even take residence in some other mansion in heaven (as Matthew 17 would have it). But we cannot let go! Tell me, how can there be only an eighth of infinity, or any fraction thereof? Is infinity not always?
Our universe we perceive as infinite (though even today I read an article that suggests our universe and our existence after the Big Bang should no longer 'be'): http://www.forbes.com/sites/bridaineparnell/2014/06/24/higgs-boson-seems-to-prove-that-the-universe-doesnt-exist/?
So too might one delight in the concept of black holes being but interstices in the great cell that is the universe, providing for osmosis between the membranes of molecule upon molecule that is the corpus habeas of an Infinite God. Ontological, are we not? Solipsistic, eh? Yet as meaning making and self referenced as we can be, there is, for me, the caution of assuming (even a bit) that the universe owes care toward me, specifically. I've seen too much death to presume, in my arrogance, that I, RM-P, have import of identity beyond what I presume to be doing for it. You?
Addendum (seen a week after writing the above, and worth a read, indeed):