I no longer know who I am. I am tangentially aware of this fact in the ever reducing space I believe I occupy, devoid of sense and purpose. I cannot mark the passage of time as I search my surroundings, theoretical at this moment, for clues and deeper meanings. My world is dim, the faintest sensations of abyssal grey with the slightest pin-pricks of stars swimming among the vast chasms, I am effectively blind.
I think I am hearing, or perhaps more accurately feeling, a subdued staccato…..muted echoes that slowly fill up the void that I believe I have become. Marking my consciousness slowly in sensations present or denied I begin to collate what I am learning. The malformed rhythm, coming out of sequence either by design or by my dubious ability to follow it in a logical progression of cause and effect, is tugging me towards a greater realization. I think I have a body, an automata of strained presence. I am unsure of how I am meant to reconnect to it, minuscule tendrils of possible facts are all that I have as a linchpin to its concept.
The staccato bursts are happening in tandem with the other, the stars hanging in the pits of my vision seem to dance in lurching sequence, fading in a different time-scale to the rhythm. A flash of warmth, concentric with its pulse and form, spreading out in inverse proportion to the dulling of the sensation. I try, as near as my fragile faculties allow, to focus on this subtle clue. Each brief moment is pulling me back towards the ineffable lack of form, the state I believe I have roused or been taken from, and I realize this pushing towards resolution is a rebellion unto myself.
Too late I realize I am falling away from the blissful state I had previously inhabited, as the mundane has crept up in inches upon a being that I had desired to remain undefined. I can hear what I think is a voice, or voices, out there in the undiscovered places. I cannot fathom their words, meanings, or intentions so far away are they and without shimmer or fungible reality. I hear another voice, frightened and so terrifying for its physical proximity to me that I cannot help but think the voice to be my own.
I know not what I have said, whether words or alien guttural utterances, nor do I know if these sounds of mine have been understood by the entity or entities that exist out there. But in grim response to this unbidden voice of mine the rhythm has fallen to the silence. For the first time I realize that I have been anchored, unmoving, to a fixed point, my only evidence of this fact comes through the realization that I am no longer bound to it as rough limbs extract me.
The entities that exist beyond my sense of self must be responding to my betrayals and move without mercy to wrest me from my origin. I feel cool lines appearing beneath my vacant vision….tears…. I realize. I hope against all longings and desires that the entities witness them, and reverse this horrible transformation, as I have only the urge to return to that formless place, to dwell there yet longer.
This is a vignette of sub-space. A roughly defined concept that exists for those who seek out the primal core of sensation itself, the discussion of which would take longer than this meager post to touch upon. For those who have experienced it to whatever degree I hope we have common ground between us of shared experience, frame of reference for memory or discussion, for those unfamiliar with any part of the concept I hope this intrigues you enough that a future rumination of the subject will be of interest to you, whether from an academic perspective or explorative curiosity.