I felt the call to Hyperspace.
Load Bowl.
Spark ignites.
Inhale.
Free.
In my travels of late, I return to a place void of color. Greyscale. Bright whites contrasting deep blacks. There is a watcher there; he is a peculiar fellow. He hides well in the folds of hyperspace, only showing his otherworldly smile when he knows I am paying attention. He appears with his eyes already intently gazing into mine; they are old and full of mysteries. He holds his arms out to his sides, palms facing me. A master of hyperspatial depth, he manipulates the geometry to his liking, keeping his distance. This was my fourth and I believe last invitation to his home.
This time, I tried to keep the geometry out of focus. (Because even void of color, hyperspace is a gorgeous place.) He had something to share, and I was intent on receiving his gift. He unfolded from the depths, only to fold back up in an instant. Not a second after that, he was in my face. Eyes locked with mine. The smile had disappeared and had been replaced with a sly grin. He lifted his palm, and I felt compelled to do the same. A colorless glow was about him. I felt chilled down to the core of my being. It wasn't fear, but the adrenaline surge right before you plunge off a cliff. I forced my hand forward ever closer to his.
The glow began pulsing, centralizing to his hand. I felt it begin to probe my energy as my hand got closer, bouncing from my hand to his. There was no stopping now. As our palms connected, I realized nothing about this landscape was colorless. I could see through his eyes. For a moment, intense color blasted through me. For that one moment, I had plugged in. For that one moment, I was alive.
In that eternal moment, the wormhole swallowed me. My eyes opened up to the darkness of my room. Colors started splashing around in the room, dancing to my heightened awareness. I am a creator.
I am a creator. I was not called to this greyscale existence to be given a gift, but to be reminded of the gift we all receive at birth. We are creators. We are imperfected perfection. Life is an extension of life. Live.
Load Bowl.
Spark ignites.
Inhale.
Free.
In my travels of late, I return to a place void of color. Greyscale. Bright whites contrasting deep blacks. There is a watcher there; he is a peculiar fellow. He hides well in the folds of hyperspace, only showing his otherworldly smile when he knows I am paying attention. He appears with his eyes already intently gazing into mine; they are old and full of mysteries. He holds his arms out to his sides, palms facing me. A master of hyperspatial depth, he manipulates the geometry to his liking, keeping his distance. This was my fourth and I believe last invitation to his home.
This time, I tried to keep the geometry out of focus. (Because even void of color, hyperspace is a gorgeous place.) He had something to share, and I was intent on receiving his gift. He unfolded from the depths, only to fold back up in an instant. Not a second after that, he was in my face. Eyes locked with mine. The smile had disappeared and had been replaced with a sly grin. He lifted his palm, and I felt compelled to do the same. A colorless glow was about him. I felt chilled down to the core of my being. It wasn't fear, but the adrenaline surge right before you plunge off a cliff. I forced my hand forward ever closer to his.
The glow began pulsing, centralizing to his hand. I felt it begin to probe my energy as my hand got closer, bouncing from my hand to his. There was no stopping now. As our palms connected, I realized nothing about this landscape was colorless. I could see through his eyes. For a moment, intense color blasted through me. For that one moment, I had plugged in. For that one moment, I was alive.
In that eternal moment, the wormhole swallowed me. My eyes opened up to the darkness of my room. Colors started splashing around in the room, dancing to my heightened awareness. I am a creator.
I am a creator. I was not called to this greyscale existence to be given a gift, but to be reminded of the gift we all receive at birth. We are creators. We are imperfected perfection. Life is an extension of life. Live.
