The darkness I'm plunged into is as solid as onyx, but I don't feel suffocated, rather, I don't feel a need to breathe at all. Am I still tied to my organic machine, or am I merely floating in the void in between the plane of existence and not?
How are we defined by others, except by that which we wear, the features that imprint us onto others' memories, our highest achievements and most crushing failures? Eyes like the oldest oceans, worn and weathered, a glint of mischief still lurking within, shadowed at times by the darkest of storms, flashing intermittently with the fiercest of passion, rage, white fire from the heavens. A simple word to define their color is not only an impossibility, it is an injustice to their bearer.
Does it seem fitting that philosophy should perhaps be that to which we resort when faced with the end of what we know, before the beginning of that which we cannot imagine?
Here, wherever I am, intangible, undefined, conscious thought does not have a set path with which to follow. Ripples of reflections spread outward, tapering off into nothingness. Beginning and ending have no meaning here, it either is, or it isn't.
A lovely reverie, it's no wonder how simple it is to be lost and yet found, without knowledge yet with peace. Sometimes that's all you need. Not to know, but to be at peace. Something tugs against my restful lull, a warning, a reminder, a promise of that which still has to be fulfilled. Intangible like the rest, insatiable in its desire, irresistible in its attraction. No matter what I do or do not, I cannot escape my inevitable return.
So I accept it, the suddenness of the rush that takes a hold of every part of me and pulls, so fast that when the light does appear, small, tiny pinpricks like the furthest of stars, it lines my vision with irregular streaks of infinite possibility.
The breaking point comes somewhere past being blinded by the culmination of all imaginable light burning out my eyesight--almost as if as a switch was flipped, a button pressed, a taut piece of string cut--and everything just stops. Not a grinding, crashing halt, more like the snap of a wishbone and then I was back.
Oh, did I wish I'd never come. A crushing sensation fills me, my heart unbeating, my body screaming in agony against this rebellion. My lungs refuse to function, lying flat and useless, my attempts to force them into a semi-working condition entirely futile. I might as well be dead, but unfortunately, I wasn't, yet.
My eyes fly open, my mouth forming the "O" shape of a silent scream. My body jerks upward from where it lies, and only then do I notice I am restrained, unable to move more than a few inches. Lights, colors, shapes, and shadows overwhelm my vision, swimming together without any boundary between them. Slowly, over the course of several millennia it seems, everything is pushed back into their rightful borders, no longer spilling over one another like raging armies fighting to conquer all in their path.
After follows the burning blaze of light, leaving no room for anything else in between. My eyes water, a natural reaction, speeding up the process of restoring my optical senses to full capacity. Somewhere along the way, I regain the ability to breathe, the restriction weighing down on my chest falling away.
The air is stale, like the smell of synthetic cheese-powdered corn chips, delightfully reminiscent once they first hit your taste buds, but in the end, leaving behind an abysmal feeling of regret that knows no bottom. The first sign that I am not alone here. An underlying hint of steel, long dried and brittle plastic, and the incandescent burn of thousands or millions of capacitors and electronic connections string finely through, sometimes here, sometimes there, always moving, never settling.
A cacophony of sound enters my hearing as if an invisible dam has just broken, and I'm overwhelmed by the sheer pandemonium that reigns, countless noises fighting to dominate my attention through the passages of my canals. I choke, utterly distressed, unable to either slow or stem the flow completely.
Like the machines we created with our gift of ingenuity and the cleverness of our fingers, as they are vulnerable, so are we. Isn't it ironic how our inventions are susceptible to many of the same hazards that threaten to extinguish the spark we ourselves hold? Though disease may not touch them, nor weariness short-circuit their connections, they too have their limits, expiring when they have been pushed past the breaking point, or accidentally broken through hapless mistake.
To one who has not experienced one form or another of sensory overload, it is difficult to conjure up not only the image but the intensity of that sensation. To put it into perspective, I am suddenly conscious, as though abruptly woken from a thousand-cycle period of slumber, a coma, within which I had absolutely no contact whatsoever with any exterior influence. It is absolutely agonizing, the flood of perceptual data utterly pulverizing every part of my body, drowning me without physical touch, the worst kind of awakening you can ever know. Chaos is everywhere, in everything, my mind is nearly destroyed, I cannot form a cohesive thought for the fact that it is impossible to focus on any one thing.
Within the period of a few nano-seconds I have repeatedly wished for death to claim me in its embrace a thousand times over, yet that eternal repose continues to elude my grasp. Suddenly, it is as though a dampener is slid over my senses, muting them, controlling them, reestablishing the dam that has been held in place for however many cycles it has been.
My heart slows after that, leveling out to a pace where I do not believe it will break free from my aching ribs. It is resilient enough that I could almost be sure that it would have emerged, still beating, before it had a chance to turn to mush from incalculable batterings against both its cage and its sanctuary.
My eyes rove aimlessly over the layout before me. Slowly, as my vision gains sharpness and clarity, I begin to distinguish different shades of colors, the depth between objects, the impossible perfection of the edges of shapes. The place into which I have arrived is unlike any of my previous experiences, all of which have faded too far into the back of my memory to recall.
Immaculate, silvery textures and achromatic surfaces broken up here and there by geometric, Stygian lines are the first things to reach my comprehension. Gradually, my surroundings fell into definition, and I found myself lying on a decline, able to view both the stark white ceiling above me, as well as its near perfect reflection in the floor below. The only difference being that the ceiling was lit with a handful of tactfully positioned recessed lamps, encased in a crystalline substance, flawless in their design.
Nearly transparent monitors lit up with colorful displays hover in my peripheral, almost as though they were floating in mid-air. I turn my head as much as is possible and note that they are, in fact, fixed in their position, yet it is all very surreal in the way it has been accomplished.
Other than the irregular flickering of the neon blues, oranges, and purples that dominate the screens, I can detect no further movement in the room I am in. Not even a whisper of sound gives me a clue as to whether or not anything or anyone else is here as well.
Logically, I am aware that there is, even if not here, at least somewhere beyond my current confines. The smells are too much alive, though unclean, and I cannot help the sliver of trepidation that ignites a surge of adrenaline through me at the fear of what it might mean.
Without warning, a hissing sound erupts from behind my head, startling me utterly with its unexpected origin. The restraints that have bound me to the table mechanically recede, allowing me free range of motion once more. When I attempt to command my muscles, however, they are slow to respond, sluggish in their movements, and I feel the creaking in my joints as though I have not moved in centuries.
I had not anticipated such difficulties to accompany me, but there was no time for self-reflection. Haltingly, as though I possessed the body of someone cycles older, I began to swing my legs over the edge of the table to the floor below.
Before I could get very far, however, I was hit with strange, new sensations that assaulted my senses. Or rather, that was how it felt. Firm, unyielding hands pressed against my shoulders, to resist was to fight a losing battle. I sank back against the headrest with less of a struggle than I had hoped for. It was pathetic, really.
Then a face loomed in my vision, peering close, eyes like polished amethyst—glittering with countless emotions, darkened depths gripping a myriad of secrets, holding them in obscurity—roamed over my own features, drinking them in like a traveler parched by the aridity of a bone-dry desert.
Zora.
Her voice was melodic, like warm honey; both soothing and leaving you yearning for more. A healing voice, one that rejuvenated and renewed, restoring even the oldest of organic machines to some semblance of functionality, even if it be only for a short period of time. She smiled down at me, warmth radiating in its brilliance, like the breaking of a new dawn, suddenly, and all at once.
"Welcome back, Yadira."
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