A central tenet of this philosophy is that light has a proper speed, but we do not perceive deviations in its speed because they are accompanied by commensurate deviations in its density. In a holographic universe, an argument could be made that everything is (fundamentally) light. Light can be too fast—so long as it’s also too dense.
It’s a bit like cake batter. Batter needs to have a certain consistency. If the speed accelerates, we compensate by adding more flour. If the mixing-bowl speed decelerates, to maintain the right density, we would have to take flour away (add water). If the mixing bowl speed is right, we don’t need to add or subtract anything.
In all three examples, the texture we observe is correct. But, behind the scenes, the mechanics are dramatically different. When there is more energy (a higher mixing-bowl speed), there also must be more density (more flour).
In other words, in a holographic universe, scale matters. We don’t want to be too large and diffuse. And we don’t want to be too small and dense. We want to be in the middle—to have the same density as light.
Only if cake batter has the proper density can it rise.
I have some cells in my left shoulder beneath where I had a skin cancer removed that bother me. It feels as if they keep trying to explode into many worlds faster than the rest of me.
Why do they want to explode? Perhaps because their light is denser than the rest of me. Have they accumulated too much oxalate? Too much iron? What if they are both faster—and denser—than the cells around them. Too fast—because the background is too cold (for their density).
