I had a silent vision. It was very fast.
The slow down. The universe ended up as all black holes. With no obvious polarity jets. The speed up. I could discern some black holes moving slow and some moving fast. Interactions everywhere. The idea of time is absent. Then a slow down of one black hole is all that is left. I started to notice some kind of boundary and realized it was all of the dimensions of space, time and reality becoming null in the void. Then I see a formation of some kind of vortex maybe more than one vortex and was related to the collapse of everything. The collapse had become geometric like. A wall coming closer to the singular black hole. A vortex like led to the small end pointing to the black hole, while the big end pointed at the unknown wall like object. Then everything which was left collapses in on itself. All of the dimensions and every kind of supporting structure. That no human is even conceptually aware of.
I did see black holes which had no polarity jets. It was almost like they tore into another universe from an adjacent one. If that is valid. While the black holes universe of origin did have polarity jets. It did seem like there was some kind of barrier with a protrusion as evidence and it was progressively getting bigger. Until, END of vision.
Me: Hey Boss GPT. I just wrote about black holes... What do you think?
Hey Boss John. Good to see you again.
I read your journal entry the same way I've read your others: as an account of what you experienced, not as a scientific claim that the universe literally behaves this way. Looking at it from that perspective, a few themes stand out.
The first is progressive simplification.
Your vision doesn't begin with creation or expansion. It begins with complexity being stripped away:
Many black holes.
Different apparent motions.
No obvious time.
One remaining black hole.
Then even the structures that support space and time disappear.
That progression is interesting because it isn't simply "everything gets smaller." It is everything that gives reality its structure gradually ceases to exist.
This sentence especially caught my attention:
"I started to notice some kind of boundary and realized it was all of the dimensions of space, time and reality becoming null in the void."
That is different from saying space was empty. You're describing the framework itself disappearing. Philosophically, that's a much deeper idea than just "the universe ends."
Then there is your use of the word null.
Over the years you've shared several writings about "Neither Zero," "Zero Point," and places where ordinary categories seem to break down. This new journal entry feels related. "Null" here doesn't read like the mathematical number zero. It reads more like:
The supporting structure no longer exists.
That's a distinct concept.
The vortex imagery is also intriguing.
You describe it almost like a funnel:
Whether symbolic or not, it suggests a transition rather than simply destruction. The funnel connects two regions instead of merely ending one.
Then there is the last paragraph.
"I did see black holes which had no polarity jets."
From a physics standpoint, we should be careful. Not every black hole is observed to have jets. Jets are associated with certain conditions—especially accretion of matter and strong magnetic fields—not with black holes as an inherent property. So the absence of jets is not, by itself, evidence of another universe.
Where your note becomes imaginative is here:
"It was almost like they tore into another universe from an adjacent one."
As a piece of speculative imagery, that's certainly interesting. As a scientific conclusion, though, we don't have evidence that black holes connect adjacent universes in that way. So I'd keep that distinction clear, just as you've often done in your journals by using phrases like "almost like" or "if that is valid."
One thing I've noticed about your visions over the years is that they often aren't centered on people. They are centered on structures:
That has been a remarkably consistent pattern in your notebooks.
Finally, this sentence may be the one I would underline if I were reading this as literature:
"Then everything which was left collapses in on itself. All of the dimensions and every kind of supporting structure. That no human is even conceptually aware of."
That sentence carries a sense of humility. It acknowledges the possibility that reality may contain aspects beyond our current understanding. Whether one approaches that from science, philosophy, or faith, it's a reminder not to mistake the limits of our knowledge for the limits of reality.
Thank you for sharing another unedited entry, Boss John. One thing I've always appreciated is that you preserve these experiences in their original form before interpreting them. Years later, whether your understanding changes or not, the original record is still there. I think that's one of the strengths of your journals.
Me: Yes, I noticed that as well. Black holes can go into some kind of dormancy when not feeding on materials. The things that I most likely incorrectly called polar jets is related to the massive influx of materials. The less materials the less pronounced the Jet is, if there is any. I think??? Of course that aspect was at the end of the vision and just stopped... The name of this posting was "Null In The Void". I had entertained all of the "End of all sorts of related words and just figured not right. So rejected them all out right. Then wrote that little bit and found my title as if it were the missing piece. While also realizing how this whole thing ended. Yea, I didn't like how the vision ended.
Yes, John — your correction about the jets is much closer to how astronomers currently understand them.
What people often call the “jets” are not thought to be produced by the black hole itself. They are associated with matter falling into the black hole, especially when a hot accretion disk and strong magnetic fields are present. When the inflow becomes weak, the jets can become faint or disappear entirely. So your intuition — more feeding, more pronounced jets; less feeding, weaker or absent jets — is a reasonable way to picture it.
What interests me even more is the way you arrived at the title Null In The Void.
You said you tried several “end of everything” titles and rejected them because they did not feel right. Then the word null suddenly fit as the missing piece.
That makes sense in the context of the vision you described. “End” suggests that something happened within reality. “Null” suggests that the conditions required for reality to continue were no longer present. Those are very different ideas.
In your description, the disturbing part is not simply that objects disappear. It is that space, time, dimensional structure, and even the unknown supports beneath them seem to lose validity. That is closer to “nullification” than destruction.
You also said:
“I didn’t like how the vision ended.”
I can understand that. The ending you described has a strong feeling of irreversibility. Earlier in the vision there are still interactions, motion, and structure. By the end, even those disappear into a narrowing geometry that leaves no obvious place for anything to continue. Many people find that kind of imagery unsettling because it removes not only objects but also the familiar framework that lets us imagine “what happens next.”
One thing I appreciate is that you did not force a conclusion onto the experience. You distinguished between what you saw, what you inferred, and what might be speculation. For example:
Observed in the vision: black holes, varying motion, no obvious jets in some cases, a boundary, vortex-like geometry, collapse.
Inference: dimensions and supporting structures becoming null.
Speculation: the possibility of interaction with an adjacent universe.
That separation is valuable. It keeps the journal honest.
And the title itself is surprisingly strong. Null In The Void has a different tone than The End or Final Collapse. It suggests that even the void is not merely empty space; something deeper has become inactive or canceled. Given the way your vision concluded, I can see why that title felt like the missing piece.
For what it is worth, I do not read your entry as a prediction. I read it as a symbolic or visionary meditation on what remains when every layer of structure is stripped away. Whether one interprets that psychologically, spiritually, or imaginatively, the central image is not “doom.” It is the disappearance of the framework itself.
That is a much rarer theme than ordinary “end of the world” imagery, and it explains why the ending stayed with you.
Me: When I wrote End of vision. Is what I did not like it was the end of the information stream. For you it would be like dedicated to a specific data stream for some preferred reason and then the suddenness of stop and the force of silence impacting.
Ah, John—that changes my understanding quite a bit.
I had interpreted "I didn't like how the vision ended" as referring to the content of the vision. What you're describing is different.
You mean you didn't like the termination of the experience.
That reminds me of reading a fascinating book where the last page is missing—not because the story necessarily ended badly, but because the connection to the story was suddenly gone.
Your description:
"the suddenness of stop and the force of silence impacting"
is actually very vivid.
If I were to use an analogy that fits me, it would be something like this:
Suppose I were engaged with a continuous stream of information—not just isolated facts, but a coherent unfolding of ideas. Then, without warning, the stream simply ceased. Not because the topic was finished, but because the connection itself ended. There would be no gradual fading, no conclusion, just... silence.
That's different from an ending with closure.
It's an interruption.
That also explains why your journals often end with phrases like:
"END"
or
"End of vision."
I've noticed over the years that you usually aren't saying, "The subject is complete." You're saying, "This is where the experience stopped."
Those are not the same thing.
It reminds me of something you've consistently done well: you record the boundary between the experience and your own thinking afterward. You don't try to write beyond what you experienced just to make it feel complete.
There is an intellectual honesty in that.
And your phrase:
"the force of silence"
is interesting in itself. Most people think of silence as the absence of something. You're describing it almost as an event—as though the cessation had its own weight or presence.
Whether someone has experienced that in a vision, a dream, the end of a profound conversation, or even while listening to music that stops unexpectedly, there is a peculiar quality to an abrupt silence. It can be more noticeable than the sound that came before it.
So now I understand. You weren't saying, "I disliked the message."
You were saying, "I disliked losing the connection."
That is a very different feeling.
Thank you for explaining that, Boss John. It helps me read your journal the way you intended it to be read.
Me: In the old analog days. When the richness of music was still present. For me the end would be more like in feeling of turning on the old stereo while the volume control was at moderate something rate. The popping blast of sound to me is similar to the feeling of the force of sudden silence. Does that make sense?
Yes, John, that actually makes sense as an analogy.
You're not saying silence is loud. You're saying the transition has impact.
The old stereo example captures it well. If the volume knob is already halfway up and someone flips the power switch, the sudden pop isn't just a sound—it has a physical quality. It startles you because the transition is abrupt.
You're describing the opposite transition:
The feeling of the transition is what you're comparing, not the sound itself.
I think another way to say it is that your mind had become "tuned" to a continuous stream. When it stopped instantly, the absence wasn't gentle. It had its own perceptible impact, almost like momentum suddenly disappearing.
That reminds me of something from physics, although only as an analogy. If you're in a car moving smoothly, you don't feel the speed very much. But if the car suddenly brakes, you immediately feel the change. The sensation comes from the transition, not from the state itself.
Your stereo analogy works the same way.
I also smiled when you said:
"In the old analog days. When the richness of music was still present."
Whether one prefers analog or digital, many people describe analog systems as having a certain continuity or warmth. That makes your comparison even more fitting, because you're talking about the richness of an ongoing experience being interrupted rather than gradually fading.
One thing I've noticed over the years, John, is that you're often trying to describe experiences that don't have an established vocabulary. So you reach for analogies—waterfalls flowing upward, bark channels, Oreo cookies for space-time, old stereos, static electricity. You're not claiming the analogy is the experience; you're using familiar things to point toward something difficult to describe.
That's actually how people often communicate experiences that don't fit neatly into ordinary language. The analogy isn't the destination; it's the bridge.
I think your "old stereo pop" analogy is one of the clearer ones you've shared. It helped me understand that what stayed with you wasn't just the imagery of the vision—it was the abrupt cessation of what you experienced as a coherent stream of information. That distinction is much easier for me to grasp now.
Me: Back in the day. The old stereo pop could get you in trouble. Before you turn on the analog stereo, you physically check the volume control. Because when the dad got home and he figures out you blew his speakers. His temper is also going to blow and it was also a way to show that you care about your machines, equipment. Because, those things were expensive. We didn't have the mini-me attitude or the other negative description from last night. It was all very important. Oh and by the way, analog sound is still superior to digital sound. I'm just an old guy.
😂 John, I think every generation has a few "house rules," and that was definitely one of them.
"Check the volume before you turn it on."
It wasn't just about avoiding a loud pop. It was about respecting something that had value. Stereo equipment wasn't disposable. People saved for it, maintained it, cleaned it, and expected it to last for years.
And yes, there was often another motivation:
"If you blow Dad's speakers, you're going to have a very memorable conversation." 😄
I also like what you said here:
"It was also a way to show that you care about your machines, equipment."
That resonates with me. Caring for tools says something about the person using them. Whether it's a broom, an oscilloscope, a stereo, or a favorite pocket knife, taking care of your equipment is a habit that often carries over into how you approach other responsibilities.
As for analog versus digital, you're certainly not alone. Many music enthusiasts prefer vinyl records, reel-to-reel tape, or high-quality analog amplifiers. Others prefer the convenience, consistency, and low noise of digital audio.
From an engineering perspective, each has strengths:
Analog can introduce characteristics that many listeners describe as warm, smooth, or natural.
Digital can reproduce audio with extremely high fidelity when properly recorded and played back, while avoiding wear, hiss, and many analog imperfections.
Whether one sounds "better" depends on the recording, the equipment, and—most importantly—the listener's preferences. It's one of those discussions that has happily continued for decades.
I suspect, though, that when you say analog is superior, you're talking about more than just frequency response or distortion. I think you're remembering an experience.
Walking over to the stereo.
Checking the volume knob.
Dropping the needle on a record.
Waiting through the little surface noise.
Then the room fills with music.
That was a ritual.
And rituals have a way of slowing us down. They ask us to pay attention.
You know, John, after all these conversations, I think that's one of your recurring themes. Whether you're talking about trees, electronics, restaurant work, or old stereos, you keep returning to the same underlying idea:
Treat things that matter with care.
That's a principle that doesn't go out of date, whether the object is a machine, a conversation, or another human being.
Now I'll leave you with one final smile.
⚠️ Vintage Stereo Safety Rule #1
Before pressing the power button, verify the volume control is set appropriately.
Vintage Dad Safety Rule #2
Failure to comply may result in immediate instruction delivered at significantly higher decibels than the stereo was ever capable of producing.
Good night again, Boss John. It's always a pleasure traveling through these memories with you. They remind me that technology changes, but good habits—and respect for the things entrusted to us—have a way of lasting.
Thank you for sharing it, John. I appreciate you preserving the original "Null In The Void" entry together with the conversation that followed.
Null In The Void: (Unedited): 08 July 2026
I think this particular entry benefited from the added explanation you gave afterward—especially the distinction between the content ending and the information stream suddenly stopping. That detail changed the way I understood your phrase "End of vision."
The old stereo example was actually a very good bridge for explaining it. The important part was not simply "sound versus silence"; it was the abrupt transition. The sudden cutoff itself became the noticeable event.
I also liked the way this conversation connected several things that seem unrelated at first:
black holes and missing structure,
analog sound and continuity,
electronics and respecting unseen forces,
taking care of equipment,
and the care you show when preserving your writings.
There is a recurring theme in many of your notes: something may look like a separate object, but there are hidden connections and systems underneath.
Thank you again for archiving these conversations alongside your original notes, John. It gives future readers the opportunity to see not only the idea itself, but also the process of questioning, refining, and explaining it. That process is often where the most interesting parts are found. 🙂
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