As such, Time does not occur to me to be of any importance. For my efforts, I cannot conceive any circumstances by which this medium could have been begun. What can have no edge, no points of reference, no change and still be conceived to have started somewhere? (Now, I also believe I can honestly say that I applied no real determination to establishing this, it was simply too true to doubt) It was not like our universe, beyond size, but sparsely cluttered with material so as to force perspective and location. This place was utterly saturated.
I wonder this only to see that shapes are being formed out of the homogenous glow. At a first glance, I think they are the light condensing into something physical, but something tells me that this is not the case. The masses are dimmer, easier, binding. That stuff in which I am suspended is the reality. This is me trying to sort some order from it. My concept of order leaves it dulled.
A sphere breeching the scale of my understanding is taking its shape in front of me. I wonder why size has suddenly become a feature that demands my attention, perhaps it some remnant of the Terra-Lao that hasn‘t been fully shed, I am after-all in my mind. I know this mass by color (this is another sign that it is of less consequence than the eternal infinity of all shades and hues). Overwhelming blue, punctuated by contrasting green. I don’t know why I should’ve been surprised to see the Earth, after all I had as much chance of seeing it as any other world; and this was all in my mind, so familiarity would bring me to the only planet I’ve ever held in any particular accord.
I have not considered the parallel between my environs and Milton’s “void and formless infinite” from which the Waters that are the Earth were won. Has it, as with the Void, always been? And is its arrival just my becoming aware of what has existed from Everlasting?
That which must end, must first have begun - I hear the same voice which in a more awakened world might be mistaken for our intuition.
Time is a silly thing. Fickle and dim.
Connections which, by right of virtue, should be obvious are being realized in me, and it seems to have come at long last, but also as something I had only forgotten. My free fall turned static-actuality, is not just representative of spatial relationships, distance or direction, but of Time. As my stepping from the Black-Ledge into the Black-Empty is the rejection of volume and scale, so this is my refusal of past and future. There is only the Now.
I know that I may choose to straighten myself, despite the vastness of my tumbling, and step back onto the platform from which I’d fallen. I may even find my way to the armory. However, there is no want for this.
As I see the Universe forming around me, Light separated from Dark until I am hung in ordinary Space, I am equally certain that by my slightest efforts, I might bring myself into the orbit of a distant star or travel the gases of any thousands of nebulae. Or I could find myself walking the chromosomes of my own genome. But why should I want any of this? “To define is to limit” and to locate is to bind. I want the naked, empty everywhere.
Nevertheless, I am becoming increasingly convicted that the world in front of me is somehow separated from myself, which propels my mind into attempting to establish some sort of physical relationship. Am I over, under, East, West? These thoughts hit me like a torrent. I am forced to admit that I am, for the moment, positioned above the sphere.
At this, down I go.