And there were little things, powerful things. Stop! Turn back! I scream, but there is no one to hear. No one left in this world who cares. It is the end, above and below. All things come to a stop. There is no air. Nothing moves at all. I don’t see any light, but neither is it dark. The world is a blank surface, empty, where there is nothing to do, nothing to be.
And then, just as sudden, all begins to be again. There is movement all around, scurrying. Across the surface, things cling, to anything, whatever is nearby. Can I exist again? Can I be? I want to feel the rhythm of life in my body. I concentrate now, focusing on my breathing. I feel the warmth in my chest, and the coldness of my feet. There is much movement: a squirrel climbs up a tree. A breeze pushes into my hair, gently swaying a few locks across my forehead. I think about the blood pulsing through my body. I want to say I am empty, but instead, I realize, I am full. I am content.
A few moments pass, and I just stand there. I look around. I am standing in my front yard. I must be weird. I am alone, except for God’s creatures, doing as they always do. I think about myself instead, which is my tendency. I am embarrassed. How long have I been standing out here? Have things happened as they seem, or was it all in my head? I look around again, gazing down the street. I see a neighbor, a few houses down, getting into their car. I wave, but he takes no notice, which is normal. Why do neighbors wave to each other, despite the fact that they have never spoken a word? I guess it makes us feel like we are giving something back, saying thanks for being there, thanks for never bothering me, thanks for being you. It all runs together. It is a seemless tapestry that has its own beauty, in its simplicity. Really, it doesn’t bother me. It is almost a comfort, staying in my own private space. I prefer to be in my own world, without interruption.
Now, to continue. How will I move on, now that the world has returned to me? So much has happened, and, yet, from the looks of it, nothing at all. It must have been an an illusion. Perhaps a better word is hallucination. Am I schizophrenic? I dismiss that possibility, for, at the least, it makes me uncomfortable. How many things passing through our minds each day do we dismiss for the benefit of our own comfort, our own convenience? So trivial, so irresponsible. I wonder.