This one alluded, in Totality and Copyright, to the method by which reality is created, suggesting the link between creativity and creation (sic). Whether we prefer to assign a religious or spiritual meaning to "creation" as a term is irrelevant; we can substitute "reality" or something which makes a flippant, shameful ("older"?), or benignly ignorant ("younger"?) attempt at aphilosophical thinking if we wish.
Our false humility may be the great characteristic of the current era. We argue that life must terminate with the expiration of the physical form, stating rather loudly that our sensations as-lived are so profound that they cannot possibly be stored or contemplated via any other format. Even "review" is limited to those possessing the dubious honor of being here now, or here then, as the case may be. In essence, we look into the void, and declare, "The experience of being me is so complex that it can only be known by me incompletely while I am here, and approximated incorrectly by those who at least know of the experience of having been here in much the same way that I myself was." An arrogant presupposition to the void, to say the least.
Our firm realism seems founded on the embrace or recognition of the marvels of our current state, and our assurance of our own ignorance. Led by various official churches that have persisted to today (Terra 2018), the greatest ecstasies of the hereafter have flirted with designations of viewing the torments of the non-blessed, which are a visceral series of attempts of avoiding the problem of perpetual existence via vicarious surprise, where a hundred sinners daily greet afresh the soldering irons of a pained immortality for the first time. Ergo we rely not on our own pleasures for happiness, but a vicarious novelty delivered by the freely deserving cattle of suffering. It is, in a way, an easy dogma to critique, for be it a civilization that can transfer between bodies for dire reasons to one that can transfer between body offerings for reasons mockingly not so dire, all provide a window into which the locally dependent material pleasures can be identified, sourced, and found to be perhaps less universal than the stereotypical This Is The Only Planet and it is Flat.
The profundity of our experience has a large part to play in our estimation of future existence. We might have once believed in daily battle, valorous combat, and nightly feasts, and might dress it up with a chance for distinguishing actions, great stories every feast, virginal attendance in later sleeping quarters, and so forth. Yet whatever manifested or derivative immortalities might exist, we see a brighter hope, of sorts, not in the halls of warrior-feasts, but in the hypothetical post-Ragnarok times, where of course god would lie just a little bit about the heavenly pleasures of looking down on hellfire's consumption of flesh, since when he rebooted things there would be real, transcendent pleasures spurred by loftier, less material or temporal minds. Before then, until then, and after it all, our fantasies can be dated and understood. What a terror it is, to recognize those many reflections in the neuralgia that's not there being a prerequisite for participation in the daily battle, for it confines our future to the finitude of our expectation, where children with microscopes that can see nerves and labs that can build them at a farthing per dish of thousands can understand the wishful, incomplete nature of our prior hopes and dreams.
Yes, we can always pronounce transcendence, and lying for your (our?) own good, and save any terrible, terrestrial fantasy thereby. A history of conjoined deceit makes difficult any related embrace of possibility. We cannot take comfort in, say, Allah, given his urgent interests in local arabesques, thousands of years later, should a starfaring civilization be confronted with original texts. And so it is with all fantasies, whereby our current development will eventually provide different focuses, making clear that any divine voice is not particularly genuine, available as it is only through human vessels whose immediate concerns have colored a sizable chunk, if not the totality, of the description.
It remains, though, an act of similar arrogance to discount a potential "afterlife" for reasons that prove themselves to be of similar derivation. Dawkins always beats up the Jesus piñata at his televised birthday party (local scion of one religion publicly degrading a predecessor) because it is an easy victory, not because it is an epistemological advancement. Our critiques of afterlives, whatever form they might take, are as similarly sourced as what we presume to be our original fantasies in such regard, for we base our denials and refutations on the very humanity that we tend to use to critique the thoughts.
By the same token, though, this occurrence should not validate some form of belief in a fantasy of its own. It is tempting, as a mortal, to witness a bad critique of an immortality, and conclude that, therefore, there is some immortality; whatever the bad critiques, or their majority acceptance by world thinkers, we are not given forever-life in compensation for perception of illogic, nor would we be in a random material stew which had happened to arrange such that it produced said critiques or those like them.
Like a blind fish in the deep waters loves the light, ignorance is the only flavor we know. Not knowing remains of vital importance. Not to confess truth, nor to command humble power, but as purely an observation as something observed, something observing can be, that in this aspect of life, we were designed and grown specifically for such a purpose. There in that place, or here in this one, we can foresee only our own destruction or wishful self-instruction, so incisively that such perception, like a painful end to a series of nightmares, offers severance by seeing--sever me, won't you please, from the idea that there is more after this.