X = 1

'Yayoi Kusama: Look Now, See Forever' Installation view


“The stars must be floating in something, don’t you think?


“Their gravity pulls hard into their center, trying to absorb everything. Other stars, in other places pull the same, they’re pulling towards each other, certainly they exists too.

“And other,… Us?


“Have you ever been any place other than where you’ve ever been?


“Maybe we’re floating near, pulling towards each others center, can you feel it?”

So the stars, they must be floating, floating in something.

“You are I.” A truth, inconclusive, came to be.”

But agreement.

“We are one, this is us, we exist.” Comes the idea.


“Am I alive?” He said. He thought. He felt. Does it matter?


Nothing. A vast expanse of complete impenetrable black,in which he felt, he somehow knew, he was in. And having no fear that an openness could be found, he moved.

Into the darkness.

“Here.” He knew of the sound, but sensed no vibrations, was aware of the thought, but sensed no muscles moving in speech.

Had he spoke? Feeling no membrane, or sinewy connections of muscle and tendon, or scratch of skin, he felt no body.

But he was not without feeling.

Traveling well worn paths emanating from some core not easily found. Some quadrant, some coordinate. What had been felt deep within the recesses of flesh, now were felt as simply, as cleanly, as a sensation pulsing on an unseen breeze, the origin of which being truly unknown, yet deposited with certain regularity. Bliss.

And then,

it was white. Perfect white. But not bright, hot white. He knew, when it was black, he saw no red, like blood filtering a hot, blinding brightness there would have been through eyelids and projecting on retinas. That is, if he had eyes to close with retinas that saw. He wasn’t sure.

But there were two states, perfect black, perfect white.

“Am I alive?”

The unusual state of affairs caused him wonder, though he himself was not sure he had a bodily form, he had a sureness of sense. There was indeed white, and there was indeed black.

Both perfect,

with no sensation of warmth, cold, texture, soreness of muscle, tickle of skin, or vibration of wave nor smell of flesh that could be sensed in the way that a body would normally sense such things. But always the persistent knowledge that exists, is. “I.”

But alive?

“What is alive?” He said. He thought. He felt. Does it matter?

Obviously, he was something, somewhere. “There is consciousness,” he was aware. This, at least, was not new.

He quickly learned he could alternate between states. Black. White.

Think black.

With this came an awareness of the commonality, and fullness of complete black, it registered in him that while complete, total black is a void into which he could pour a fullness, the fullness of white.

So it goes. The first dualities. Voids and fullness. Black and white.

Let there be white.

Clarity, crispness. Corners: eight of them, in three dimensions were presented before him. He could move each corner to any quadrant he desired. The shape he’d finally conjured came from familiar surroundings he thought he had known before. Weak, actually.

Weak minded fool.

He could create anything he desired, yet he was unable to create anything more than an eight cornered space. A rectangular room, in which, it was becoming apparent to him, he had placed himself.

“But how?” The thought escaped.

He moved, and the room moved with him. “Pointless” he realized. I’m in the same place I started from.

He pushed the corners further. And moved again, and again the room moved with him. Pointless.

He could move the room, but in the room he could not move.


Then he realized he was everywhere within the room, and all he had to do was deconstruct the room, and he would be everywhere, but he could not deconstruct the room, now that he had constructed it.

Result, we are all in rooms of our own making. ‘hell’ would be constructing this room, and then being in it, alone, forever.

And it could be white. And it could be black. And he could choose only these. His desire for change was fueled by the realization that there could only be two states, and time.

All sensations but time disappeared. But time, unlike other sensations, was a painful awareness. Through those well worn pathways, on which other sensations had fluttered like the breeze, time weighed heavy on him. Like a thunderous sky, hailing forth tremendous storms, time pelted his awareness with the realization that while he indeed was, his was amounted to nothing.

He began to go mad.

He could not escape it. He existed, he knew that, he could control the black, and the white, yet felt no relief from the interminable boredom of time.

White, then black. Which state that was became inconsequential, it was time in which he felt great pain.

He could bring about white, in which he would realize the hideous pain of times boredom, and he could bring black, which brought no relief from white. He could alternate between the two at will, creating bizarre strobe effects, but he could do nothing else. There was nothing beyond these simple two states. But there was the sensation, a yearning, that there could be.

He had realized that his entrapment was complete, and it was of his own hand when he created the construction of the eight cornered room. What lay outside the room?

This question filled his realization, and grew the fire of temper and emotion within his feelings. He wanted to find something more, something other than this black, or this white. But there was nothing else he could conceive of, except that time was passing, and in this time he could only do one of two things. Create complete white, and create complete black.

It was an inquisition of tormentors.

It was more than an awareness, it was a knowledge that time, if you could do nothing but note its passing in its relentless advance, was in itself, a torturous hell.

And in this hell he remained.

“Time is a construct you’ve become aware of, or better yet, one that you’ve not been able to become unaware of. As long as you are aware of time, then you’ll be in this torment.” This thought was put to him, but not of his own reasoning. He became aware of another source of thought outside his own. His existence was now becoming shared, he felt as if a long silence had been lifted.

In the white, along one of the planes, a thin crack of black appeared. It grew to form a tall, slender rectangle. And in this rectangle, a black outlined portion of the white plane hinged into the room. An opening from what was white, into what was black.

This was new. As new as the first realization that white could become black, and black could become white. But the simultaneous appearance of both, existing on the same plane gave him a moment’s pause of time, which he enjoyed. A break in the monotony taking his focus and setting it at a point where he could see clearly a contrast. Bliss returned.

Through the opening, a point of white appeared, growing larger until within the door a form appeared from the point. It was a man.

The man crossed the threshold of the opening, and into the eight cornered room he came. Walking stately, dressed in pure white linen which he could tell was linen by some illusion of white on black where he could see faint, crisp outlines against the pure white of the room.

The clear eyed man knows of no time.

‘You don’t believe in that now though, do you’ said the clear eyed man.

‘Your own personal Jesus, or what have you’, seems silly now doesn’t it.

The room constructs the events that the man lived. He sees his life on Earth was just as much his own construction as this room is. And that he could have constructed anything he wanted, but like constructing this room, he constructed a room which imprisoned not only him, but others he touched as well. And this is ‘the sin of man’.

He is left with an ultimatum. Return, and perhaps learn how to construct a better life, which may enable him to construct a better ‘after life’, or be doomed to spend eternity, aware that he is alone, in this white room, that moves with him everywhere he goes, and it is all that he can construct.

For the clear eyed man indeed knows how to make the room construct anything, and it is something that can be attained. But he does not know how yet. and this is hell to him. he wants to live in the glory of his on constructs, yet does not know how.

This ‘construction’ is what we learn on earth. learn it well.

Enter the man with black eyes, wearing a white suit and top hat.

Categorized as Sci Fi

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