The Return of Zarathustra:

CHAPTER SEVEN: EINSTEIN’S FANTASY

The courtroom was collapsing—yet Zarathustra remained standing, calm within the quake. The Judge’s throne flickered as the god-figure writhed, unable to hold form beneath the mounting weight of truth.

Zarathustra now shifted, walking to the edge of the crumbling circle beneath him, where shards of glass opened into visions of modernity.

He gestured to the abyss below:

“You would cling to your science, would you not? When your gods fall, you turn to formulas. But even your formulas are steeped in the same ancient delusion.”

A ripple through the glass, and now the abyss showed a different dream: a lecture hall, a blackboard, Einstein scribbling equations.

“This desperate refugee, weaving light into his own imagined godless heaven,” Zarathustra said softly.

The shadows hissed beneath him, reluctant but bound to listen.

“Even Einstein, lauded by your modern priests, fell victim to the oldest nightmare.”

The abyss displayed the famed equation: E = mc²—hanging like a broken idol in the dark.

Zarathustra’s voice sharpened: “He imagined a relative universe where light never bows, where gravity cannot pull it down. And so, from this single abstraction, he unraveled time, bent space, and fused them into a fabric—a canvas painted with the brush of speculation.”

He smiled bitterly.

“Yet what is this but another male creation myth, imagined by the infantile mind of a talking monkey who could not accept reality? Another man conjuring cosmos from imagination alone—without mother, without origin. Another ‘father of modern physics’ dreaming that reality could be spun from mind rather than born from body.”

The courtroom rumbled as the Judge’s face briefly took the shape of Einstein—eyes wide, mouth silent, fat tongue hanging out, dripping the tasteless lies of every conditioned dog who responds only to artificial trigger words, mistaking them for reality—before melting back into abstraction.

“Even the men of numbers and stars followed the path of Adam,” Zarathustra declared. “They dared imagine that creation itself could emerge unbound from the womb, as if light were the child of nothing, as if time itself could escape the eternal return of life from life.”

The abyss crackled, revealing the silent womb hidden beneath every invention, every theory, every story.

“Light bends beneath gravity, not an imaginary relative spacetime. Time is but your measurement of decay. Space is not your canvas—it is your blindness.”

He turned to the Judge:

“You clothed yourself in relativity. In cosmology. In speculative dreams. But your robe is still stitched from the same thread of nonsense.”

The Judge convulsed violently, clutching his own melting face as equations and star charts tore across his body like wounds.

Zarathustra’s voice dropped to a whisper that echoed through every fragment of the abyss: “Your modern myths are no different from your ancient ones. Still, you refuse to admit: before the stars, before the stories, before the laws—was the womb.”

The courtroom cracked deeper, threatening to split into oblivion.

Zarathustra turned calmly, facing now the abyss itself: “The nightmare clings to every age. But, now—no more.”