Man came to break the light sometimes. He knew it was man
because he looked like he looked, he smelt like he smelt. He’d never seen
not-man. Man came to break the light with his own bright, white clothing. Man
brought with him pain that offered relief, relief from the pain he felt all the
time apart from when new pain took it away. He was grateful for man and his
pain. Sometimes he didn’t notice man come in, such was the brightness of the
light that surrounded man and himself. He was sad when he missed man, but happy
for the pain he brought. Was he happy? Had he been happy before? If he was,
this was it.
Man has not been in a while. He did not know how long a
while was, did not know time. Hours, days, weeks. Time was nothing when there
was only light. Bright, white, intoxicating light. Forever? Was forever a time?
If it was then that was not it. No. Light was forever. Never had there not been
light, but there had been man. Not forever ago. Less than forever. But not for
a while. This made him sad, if he could be sad. Never had there not been light
so never had he not been happy, if he could be happy. Whatever it was he felt
when man did not come, this was it. How he felt now. Feelings. He never knew he
could have feelings. Man made them stop.
Sometimes light stopped. Light only stopped since man
stopped coming, he noticed that. When light stopped he felt pain again. Not
pain he could feel with his body, pain he could feel with his head. When light
stopped the floor stopped being clean, white, free of things. It became full of
thoughts. Full of things he’d never before thought about because he did not
think when there was light. When there was light there was only light to think
about, but now, sometimes, light was dark. He did not like dark. He thought
when there was dark. He thought about time and forever and the man who no longer
came.
Light. Gone. Dark. Arrived.
He’d never seen a door before. He didn’t think he’d seen
one. He didn’t know what one was. But then a door presented itself and with it
came space he’d not yet existed it. Space he could see was light in places. He
avoided the darkness, afraid of what happened. He stepped into light, into
safety. He welcomed it like a friend. What were friends? He’d made one now. Warmth,
heat, comfort. He imagined being free to reach out for it. He imagined being
free to touch it. He imagined being free. The mask gave him room to breathe,
room to see, room to see what he would have touched had he been able to. Above
the light, another door? A small door. Was it a door? No. He knew doors now,
this was not door. Light, floor, man, door. Pain. This was nothing he knew.
This was a frame for light, a frame for, noise. New noise. The noise the man
made was heavy, deep, dense. The new noise was alive. Can noises be happy? This
noise made him happy. Not happy like the light made him; happy like only this
could. The noise of something different, of possibilities. His face stretched
up and he admired his find.
Colour. This not-door offered colour. Not white or bright or
intoxicating. Green, yellow, red, invigorating. Colours that were moving and
laughing and blending. Colours that ran around each other and became one when
they chose to. Colours that stopped as soon as the not-door told them to. Did
this not-door have power over colour? Is that why colour only lived beyond it
while within it was white? He breathed in the colour. He breathed in the air
and it did not taste like air always had done. It tasted like rain and food and
the sun. The sun. A light more blinding than any he’d seen before. A new
friend.
Man, he found him on the floor. This floor was not clean,
not white, not free of things either. This floor was like the dark only this
floor was red. Man was red. Man no longer sounded at all. Alive? He knew alive,
had lived it. This was not alive. Maybe the red had killed man. Would the red
out the not-door kill him if he went to it? Would it matter? Man looked
content. Man looked at peace.
He wanted peace. Walls, these could be walls. He followed
them, using free fingers to feel. Smooth. Walking round man so as not to wake
him. Fingers found something else, not wall, not door. But there was a door,
next to it. A big door, made of what the not-door was made from. This? This was
the colour of what was outside. The colour green. Round, shining, reflecting
light. He inspected it, looking closely. It moved, went backwards, went into
the wall. The door opened. Light escaped, replaced by new light, the light of
the sun.
He stood and watched the outside happen. It ignored him,
went on with its business. Would it be rude? What is rude? Had the red been
rude when it stopped man being alive? He didn’t mind rude. Outside looked happy.
Outside gave him promise, gave him hope that someday he too could be as
wonderful.
Inside was cold. Outside was heat. Sun, new friend. Light
and heat, best friend.
He imagined being free.
This was it.
He was it.
Inside, gone. Life, arrived.