In a white room he finds himself. Nothing to see, nothing to judge. Is he free, or is he trapped? He knows not, he cares not. His arm is lifted and he sees himself. His legs extend and he stands. He explores the room. He finds himself bewildered at the beauty and serenity of this blank enclosure. Soon, he understands the room as he does himself. Time slips slowly onwards. Eventually he knows every corner, every wall. He knows the things he can do, as well as those things which he cannot. He loves the room as he loves himself.
A voice echoes from above, indiscernible. A window, a hole, a portal through which he is called. Now there is doubt in his clean world. He wonders if there is more. He wants to know. He waits. He grows impatient. He begins to loathe the room. He hates that he must wait. He knows not what else to do in this room if there is more beyond. All he knows is the room and himself. He knows not the unknown, yet he knows it is there. But, he has waited. He has waited as long as he has known himself. A hand stretches down and whisks him through the window.
In a white room he finds himself. Now there are others. They are strange. They are sad. They argue, they bicker, they shout. They have ideas. They fight amongst each other, yet they are all so similar. Why? He looks and tries to find the wall he has known so long for some comfort. He extends his hand. Air. He runs outward trying to find his wall.
There is no wall.
He is scared. He feels trapped in this blank infinity. He wants to go back. He returns to the window through which he came. He sees someone in his white room. He yells, he warns them not to come. The person looks up at him, straining to hear, trying to understand. He shouts his warning louder. He watches as the person begins to loathe the room, this new person wants to know. He flees the window. He yearns to once again feel safe, ignorant of the world just above his head. He wants to feel the bliss again of understanding.
Time has passed. He wants there to be more now, more to this blank infinity. He had always thought to know, but now knows not to think. He is hypocrisy. He is lost. He waits for the day a window opens above him, so that he may understand as he did before. He has thought long enough. He proclaims his ideas of the world and tries to silence the others, the ones who instill doubt in himself. He argues. He bickers. He shouts. He pushes not towards the wall, but on another.
He is old now. He lays idle. He has watched them come in great numbers. The voices roar and the masses clash. There is red in this white room. He has seen others go, but thought nothing of it. For he is himself, he is not another. Yet now, it is his turn to go. His eyes are closing. He still wants to know. He feels his heart fading. He wants to know more than ever before. He yearns for his time past. His mind races and his vision dims. His arms go limp. He needs to know. His breathing stops. His eyes close. All that is left is black in his once white world. But wait, a dot, something small, something precious, something white? Now only terror remains. For he has always known,
there is no wall.