The Secret History of the World

In my mind, there is a beach. The sand is auburn and amber, although you can’t tell if it’s really that color, or merely the result of the sunlight. Everything is bathed in the sunlight’s steady, bronzing glow. Picture Saturn, picture the edge of the world before Xi threw the coke bottle off of it. Where he saw green forest, everything is metallic, shimmering sand. As he saw clouds below him, you know that beneath all of this is Space.

I step into the sand, then sink. I cannot tell if I’m falling in, or if it’s rising up to meet me, coat me, but either way I am soon in up to my neck. It does not hurt me, or scratch me, but holds me, warmly. I am protected in the sand, blanketed against the world. I look out at the galaxy, at the gold-bronze-ruby-touquoise colors that shoot off before me and swirl around me. My mind’s eyes are presented with a kaleidoscope of wonder. Then the sand holding me begins to slip away, pouring over the edge of reality into a beautiful nothingness, and I pour away with it.

I am floating, I am in pieces. I am nothing, in the most beautiful sense of the word. Usually, nothingness equates an absence. How can you have nothing without the relativity of something? Like this.

This is the kind of Nothingness that produced everything, the Nothingness that can still be found everywhere, that has replaced its Absence with the Wholeness of Possibility.

If you pushed this Nothingness together, packed it hard and struck it against something, it would Spark. Ideas, movements, actions, beliefs, beings. It is all-encompassing. It is pregnant.

Except

You cannot strike Nothing against Something

or Anything

If this Nothing is perpetually on the edge of Something, and I, along with the pouring sand, am perpetually spilling over edges, then I am now simply tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling every non-instant of every non-moment there is. The motion is so constant, beyond rapid, that my perspective never gets the opportunity to noticeably change. Nothing is happening to me. Nothing is changing. Nothing feels safe (capitalized? maybe not). But also. Nothing is wrong (again, capitalized? I’m not sure).

You thought I was helping you out, when I allowed you to spend the night, opened my bed to you. You were helping me. It was good to have someone else there. We never touched, never felt pressure to do anything other than talk and sleep. Purely platonic companionship, at the most necessary of times.

The heat from your body allowed me to do Nothing without dissolving. I was in my mind while safely being anchored to Earth.

That’s all I want right now. Another body, to keep me grounded, to remind me that I am real and whole and not nNothing (capitalized or not).

Come to the beach with me, and stand apart from the sand. Float on a platform as I pour over the edge. Allow me to flow into the Nothing, to share your space and bits of your person, to spread up through the ceiling, to sail and hang and tumble. Then, stand up as Something, take a net to pull me together, strike against me until I spark back into myself.

Maybe, eventually, you’ll spark me out of my mind as well.

For now, though, this is what I can handle. This is the base of what I need.

So, thank you.

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