The Empty Room

I lie in the void. Never have I experienced such emptiness. I cannot understand why I seem to be motionless, but it could be an illusion. If I fell through this space, there would be no point of reference to indicate my motion. I feel some pressure against my back—perhaps something supports me.

As long I can remember, I floated in a confined space. I was warm and buffered from the thousand shocks which flesh is heir to. I could reach the outer limits of my realm without effort. In fact, it took great effort to extend my limbs, but I could do so. Now I am bound hand and foot, I cannot move at all, which seems a shame given the extent of the emptiness which surrounds me.

Empty, yes, yet somehow uncomfortable. I am a creature of darkness and the dismal light of this place assaults my eyes. I never had any awareness of my eyes being open or closed in my earlier life. I simply existed, free of thought or imaginings. Now I am aware of a signal that passes through my face. When it does, I am assailed by radiant energy that I can only block with an act of will. I clench my eyes shut and sink into the oblivion of sleep.

I struggle to understand the purpose of this new situation. In memory, everything was as it should be. I had no needs, I had no wants, my existence was guaranteed. You may imagine this as a poor kind of existence, simply being without doing. But whatever I cared to do, I could. I extended my limbs, blinked my eyes without pain, and floated secure against the universe.

You may ask if I ever experienced boredom, and I can honestly say, “Never.” The concept is alien to me. It requires the sense of waiting, that something is coming that is different from this moment. I live only the moment with no sense that anything awaits. I am tranquil in the knowledge of constancy.

Yet there has been a change. I am in this new emptiness, so different from my life until now. We hope that change will bring improvement, but what could be better than floating in a personalized realm? Whatever this is, it does not represent improvement. The light and my immobility irritate me. The temperature is not to my liking. I long for warmth, but this emptiness chills my exposed surface.

I grasp the absurdity of my situation. I am the only consciousness I am aware of. That suggests that my surroundings, whatever they are, whatever they have been, are products of my own thought. I have imagined and created this inhospitable environment, though I cannot comprehend why I should do such a thing. Perhaps an act of will could change my circumstances.

I picture the empty space more to my liking: warmer, darker, more sustaining. I persuade myself that these wishes are true. This empty space is a blank field for my creativity. I will pepper it with little lights, only enough to be interesting, not enough to irritate my eyes. I will divide the void from the firmament, and create a zone populated by creatures like me, but subservient to my primacy. I have no interest in challenges or revolutions, but I feel a desire for companionship. It makes sense to fill such a large empty space. It must exist to be filled.

I imagine what I will fill it with, the creative possibilities. I myself have come from nothing, so it must be possible to create more. I exist, and I have thoughts, whatever I am. I am the being who perceives this empty space and longs to fill it. Other beings may come from wherever I came from. I need only think the right thought, the right word, and they will appear.

Change is possible, if only I knew how. One moment I was in my realm, my warm, embracing space, and then it seems I was hurled into a flood of light. Unfortunately, just at that moment consciousness slipped from me, and I remember nothing until my arrival here. I did not want or produce that change, which suggests that my circumstances are not entirely under my control. External forces operate beyond my awareness. I cannot decide if these forces are hostile or sustaining, but perhaps the appearance of externality is an illusion. Despite the surge of activity, my consciousness remains unique.

Perhaps there is a meaning to this existence that I cannot grasp. This does not prove that it is meaningless, only that I am unaware of any purpose. There must be one—how absurd to be aware of pointless nothingness. I strain against my bindings, reaching for something beyond myself, something to perceive that lends meaning to this empty room. My efforts achieve nothing. I remain bound and immobile in an unresponsive universe.

I have a pain in my liver, and now I know that this is not my creation. I would not imagine a world with pain—why should I? I feel no need to punish myself. This comes from outside and strikes to the core of my being. Perhaps my awareness, my consciousness, my very being expresses the desire of the void to know itself through a momentary fluctuation. The fluctuation necessarily spews particles and antiparticles that self-annihilate on contact. Annihilation must have begun. I sense it in the core of my being. I have seen the void, and known it, and now I may depart.

I wonder if I should depart in dignity, silent, refusing to acknowledge the pain of my existence to the indifferent nullity. I resolve not to give satisfaction to nothingness. I am conscious, I am more than nothing, even if nothing should triumph in the end. As the pain increases, I change my opinion. I will shout into empty space, tell it that existence is pain, that it should bring no more like me into existence. I have done my part, reflecting the universe upon itself, and I will go screaming my defiance to the uncaring void.

I scream, launching my pain into space, I scream for all I am worth, whatever I may be worth. My scream produces—what? A being, a responsive mobile entity? The being forces an enormous ball of flesh into me, and I suck it, suck it, suck it, knowing the effort is futile, yet satisfying.