When classes ended, I figured I should give my academic brain something lighter to do.

Naturally, I picked up a book about cosmology, parallel universes, dark matter, spacetime distortions, and the possible collapse of ordinary reality.

Questionable, though admittedly entertaining, decision-making.

How I got there is even more ridiculous.

I had been watching Fringe on Hulu.

Yes, Fringe.

The show where strange science, alternate universes, suspicious government agencies, and things that absolutely should not exist somehow become ordinary Tuesday problems.

Like many people with too much curiosity and insufficient self-restraint, I eventually found myself wondering:

“Wait… how much of this parallel universe thing is actual science?”

This, historically, is how trouble begins.

One innocent question.

One Google search.

One book recommendation.

Suddenly, your idea of relaxing after classes somehow involves reading Parallel Worlds by Michio Kaku and voluntarily questioning the stability of reality itself.

Graduate school clearly changes a person.

At some point, “taking a break” quietly transforms into voluntarily reading existential dread written by physicists.

So I picked up the book and started reading.

I am currently somewhere halfway through Chapter 2.

Which is exactly the stage where confidence begins leaving the body.

You start reading with optimism.

“Oh, this will be interesting.”

A few chapters later, physics gently grabs you by the shoulders and says:

“Everything you believe about reality is embarrassingly provincial.”

Science books do this.

They begin politely.

Friendly even.

Like an elderly professor inviting you into his office.

“Sit down,” he says warmly. “Let me explain the universe.”

Then twenty pages later you realize this was not an explanation.

This was an ambush.

Michio Kaku begins with what seems like a perfectly reasonable question:

How did everything begin?

Humanity has spent thousands of years arguing over this.

Religion had answers.

Mythology had answers.

Everyone had answers.

Some cultures believed the universe burst into existence in dramatic fashion.

Others believed it had always existed, endlessly recycling itself like some cosmic bureaucracy incapable of shutting down (Kaku, 2006).

Frankly, one cannot entirely blame ancient civilizations.

Imagine standing under the night sky with no telescope.

No science.

No internet.

No astrophysics.

Just darkness and alarming glowing objects hanging overhead.

You would invent gods too.

Or at minimum suspect the stars were plotting something.

Kaku explains that humanity historically split itself into two opposing camps. One believed the universe had a beginning. The other insisted it had always existed. Naturally, because reality enjoys humiliating certainty, Kaku quietly suggests that both sides may have accidentally stumbled into being partially correct (Kaku, 2006).

Perhaps our universe had a beginning.

But perhaps reality itself did not.

Perhaps universes come and go while some larger cosmic machine simply keeps running without bothering to explain itself to us.

Which feels rude, frankly.

This is where the book quietly stops behaving like popular science and starts behaving like an organized campaign against common sense.

Because before Kaku even introduces parallel universes, he first dismantles your confidence in ordinary reality.

Enter the WMAP satellite, humanity’s deeply ambitious attempt to photograph the afterglow of creation itself. Scientists essentially managed to observe the universe when it was only about 380,000 years old, which in cosmological terms makes it roughly an infant with serious thermal issues (Kaku, 2006).

Think about that.

Human beings, a species that still struggles with replying-all to emails and conference calls that should have been emails, somehow built machines capable of studying the leftovers of the Big Bang.

That is honestly impressive.

The sky, Kaku explains, is effectively a time machine.

Moonlight?

Already old.

Sunlight?

Running about eight minutes late.

Stars?

Years behind.

Galaxies?

Millions or billions of years delayed.

Astronomy, it turns out, is mostly looking at old things and pretending we are not deeply disturbed by what we find (Kaku, 2006).

And what did scientists discover after all this effort?

Confusion.

Pure, premium-grade confusion.

Scientists once believed matter was straightforward.

Atoms.

Elements.

Periodic tables.

Nice orderly diagrams from high school chemistry.

Simple.

Comforting.

Wrong.

According to Kaku, everything we recognize, stars, planets, mountains, heartbreak, taxes, office politics, coffee, and the occasional bad life decision, makes up only around 4 percent of the universe (Kaku, 2006).

Four percent.

Reality apparently forgot to introduce us to the remaining ninety-six.

About 23 percent appears to be dark matter, invisible stuff that exerts gravity while stubbornly refusing to cooperate with observation (Kaku, 2006).

Then comes the truly insulting part.

About 73 percent is believed to be dark energy, a mysterious force pushing galaxies apart faster and faster while scientists openly admit:

“Yes, it exists.”

“No, we do not fully understand it.”

Which, honestly, is refreshingly honest.

Imagine hearing that level of humility in everyday life.

“We have absolutely no idea what is happening, but we appreciate your patience.”

Then Chapter 2 arrives.

And common sense quietly packs its bags.

Einstein enters.

Reality begins bending.

Space bends.

Time bends.

Gravity stops being “the thing that makes stuff fall” and becomes geometry having what appears to be an emotional breakdown.

Matter bends spacetime.

Spacetime tells matter where to go.

Perfectly logical, physicists insist.

Meanwhile, ordinary people stare blankly and quietly return to paying bills.

By this point, Chapter 2 delivers an uncomfortable truth:

Human intuition is hilariously unqualified to understand the universe.

Of course it is.

We evolved to avoid predators.

Find food.

Avoid cliffs.

Make regrettable life decisions.

We did not evolve to understand warped spacetime, cosmic inflation, or hypothetical multiverses.

Our ancestors survived saber-toothed cats.

Not cosmology.

And perhaps that is what has stayed with me most so far.

Now, the book, as it is, wasn’t merely teaching cosmology.

It is teaching humility.

Real humility.

Cosmic humility.

The uncomfortable realization that human beings are tiny creatures standing on a wet rock orbiting an average star, somehow convinced that we are qualified to explain existence.

Ridiculous.

Absurd.

Slightly arrogant.

And somehow, profoundly human.

I originally thought it would help me understand cosmology.

Halfway through Chapter 2, I mostly learned this:

The universe is weird. Physics is not sorry. And reality, apparently, has been keeping secrets.

Which is unfortunate.

Because mythology, at least, occasionally tried to make people feel better.

References

Kaku, M. (2006). Parallel worlds: A journey through creation, higher dimensions, and the future of the cosmos. Anchor Books.