Once, twice and three times he blinks before he could even get a blurred vision of what he is surrounded by, which is, sheer emptiness.
Rubbing the tiredness off his eyes he looks around to assure himself that which he is seeing is real.
This space is completely strange, lonely, and quiet.
It's bright but he can't see the source of light, there's no shadow to predict the direction of the source. He couldn't say if he is breathing or not. For sure, he still sees but what is there to look at?
It’s white on all sides. Is all that people see white when they go blind while others think it’s dark? But I’m not blind; I can see my body as I look down.
Sitting up on this white floor whose end is nowhere to be seen or even to be imagined to exist, he tries to remember how he ended up here.
Touching himself sends two signals to his brain, one, of his being touched by someone and the second, he touching something.
Is this real? Am I dreaming?
He starts walking a few feet and soon collapses. He’s tired like he has been walking a desert for two days without sleep, without wat…
Wait! He remembers something. My tongue… It’s dry. I’m thirsty. I need… Wat.. Water. Water… I should drink water.
He then realizes why he was not able to call for help. His throat is too dry for him to make any sound that even he could hear.
He can’t remember when he lost consciousness. When he woke up he hoped against all hopes that he be anywhere in the world but here. He’s imprisoned in an open space with all the freedom to go anywhere but nowhere to go to.
He cried. His dry eyes could produce no tear. He wept. Like a child he wept and eventually passed out.
The taste of salt on his tongue brought him back to consciousness. He’s wet. Not just wet. No it can’t be. Am I swimming in my own tear? How could I have produced so much tear to swim in it?
His feet can’t find the floor, he is swimming, no he’s floating to be precise and suddenly a hand so strong grabs him by the collar. He hears loud whistles around him which mercilessly pierces through the loud thunderstorms.
The sound of the whistle and thunderstorm made him a blissful baby reborn after the unbearable silence of who knows how long.
Rubbing the tiredness off his eyes he looks around to assure himself that which he is seeing is real.
This space is completely strange, lonely, and quiet.
It's bright but he can't see the source of light, there's no shadow to predict the direction of the source. He couldn't say if he is breathing or not. For sure, he still sees but what is there to look at?
It’s white on all sides. Is all that people see white when they go blind while others think it’s dark? But I’m not blind; I can see my body as I look down.
Sitting up on this white floor whose end is nowhere to be seen or even to be imagined to exist, he tries to remember how he ended up here.
Touching himself sends two signals to his brain, one, of his being touched by someone and the second, he touching something.
Is this real? Am I dreaming?
He starts walking a few feet and soon collapses. He’s tired like he has been walking a desert for two days without sleep, without wat…
Wait! He remembers something. My tongue… It’s dry. I’m thirsty. I need… Wat.. Water. Water… I should drink water.
He then realizes why he was not able to call for help. His throat is too dry for him to make any sound that even he could hear.
He can’t remember when he lost consciousness. When he woke up he hoped against all hopes that he be anywhere in the world but here. He’s imprisoned in an open space with all the freedom to go anywhere but nowhere to go to.
He cried. His dry eyes could produce no tear. He wept. Like a child he wept and eventually passed out.
The taste of salt on his tongue brought him back to consciousness. He’s wet. Not just wet. No it can’t be. Am I swimming in my own tear? How could I have produced so much tear to swim in it?
His feet can’t find the floor, he is swimming, no he’s floating to be precise and suddenly a hand so strong grabs him by the collar. He hears loud whistles around him which mercilessly pierces through the loud thunderstorms.
The sound of the whistle and thunderstorm made him a blissful baby reborn after the unbearable silence of who knows how long.
