There was something there.
Right there— but no one would turn to see it.
It was the biggest thing in existence. The edge was only two feet away, and there it was, a howling wall of nothing, churning with the crushing force of infinity itself—contracting—expanding—its roar so loud nothing could be heard over it—whipping people’s hair and pulling at their clothing—sucking up odd items—hats, paper cups, straws and small animals—and RIGHT NEXT TO IT a silent movie, untouched, drinks being sipped, words being exchanged—glances, nods, smiles…
Why wasn’t anyone looking? How could they hear each other?
I tried to look myself but I couldn’t. I turned to see it but it moved with me, remaining just outside of my direct vision, straying squarely at the corner of my eye. The crowd passed around me, through me—I into them and they into me—and I said hello, goodbye, shook hands, made friends, took lovers, all of it—feet away from the frenzy at my back.
What's happening? Bits of data being endlessly exchanged—form feeding form, into eternity, no point possible.
Do the others know? Are they trying to see it too?
I try to break away, push off, leap into the air, point, shout—
THERE’S SOMETHING THERE
—but the words are nothing, unheard. I disappear until I return.
Smiles are exchanged. Handshakes, pats on the back. The busyness of life sets in and I am noble, grinning, doing good work and having children, contributing, making an effort, seeing things through, understanding, creating, making my way.
And the void whispers.
Finally I am ready to sleep. Finally.
I am alone in the room, the bed standing on its end. Everyone else has left. My head is turned to the right, and I am heavy with the gravity of this solitary station, here, in this solitary room. Slowly I turn my head to look, and it travels with me, finally. Face to face.
And the howl that opened existence speaks.