Why had I done it?
He question himself. The knowledge isn't come instantly from the keystone, only the fact of the choice and the resulting separation. But the feel of the object in his hand resonated with immense purpose, a weight that transcended its physical form. It feel significant, crucial.
He look around the infinite library again, no longer merely curious, but with a dawning understanding. This isn't just a repository; it feel like a mechanism. And he isn't just an accidental visitor; he feel like a participant in some grand, intricate process involving consciousness, memory, and choice.
The endless drift, the vortex, the finding of this object… none of it feel random anymore. It feel like a deliberate sequence, a path designed to bring him to this specific point, to reunite with this specific, excised piece of himself.
What did it mean? What was the purpose of retrieving these forgotten memories now? And where did I go from here?
The silence of the library, once merely pervasive, now feel expectant. The hum of the books seemed to deepen, to focus, drawing his attention not back to the arises he has explored, but towards a faint luminescence in the distance, deeper within the library, beyond where the shelves blurred into haze.
Holding the keystone object tightly, feeling the weight of the hidden past it contained, he began to walk towards that distant light. The journey through the void had ended, the chaotic passage through the vortex was over, but the true journey, the one into the depths of this impossible library and into the forgotten corners of his own being, feel like it was just beginning. The questions were overwhelming, but the pull of the unknown, the promise of understanding what he has sacrificed and why, is irresistible. He has come seeking answers about forgotten memories. It seemed he has found the key, and now just need to find out what door it unlocked.
The concept of 'now' has become incredibly fluid. It stretches, thins, and snaps without consequence here, wherever here is. All he know is he is floating. Ground.... ground long gone, now only thing he know that he floating. Freefall doesn't quite capture it; there's no sense of gravity, no ground to fall towards. It's more like being suspended in an unbelievably slow, deliberate current, though there's no water, no air, nothing but the profound, ink-black absence he have come to call the space void ocean.
And he is moving. Always moving. His path is strange, impossibly straight, like an unseen ruler dictates his trajectory through this featureless expanse. There are no stars, no distant nebulae, just the absolute, oppressive dark. There is no friction, no resistance. He just… go.
He doesn't remember how he got here. Or why. His last solid memory is… fuzzy. A feeling. A sound, maybe? It dissolves like smoke whenever he try to grasp it. So, with nothing to do, nowhere to go but this predetermined line, and no end in sight, he started watching.
Watching his own memories.
It began subtly. An echo, a flicker at the edge of his non-existent vision. Then, with focus, they coalesced. Not as a video, but as a kind of internal theatre projected onto the void around him – ephemeral, shimmering scenes that nonetheless felt utterly real to his senses.
The first time was fascinating. A kaleidoscope of his life, rushing past like scenes on a train window. Childhood laughter, awkward teenage years, moments of triumph and stinging failure. It was overwhelming, a reminder of a world, a body, a life he has apparently left behind. He watched it with a mixture of awe and sadness.
By the fifth time, the novelty has worn off, replaced by a sort of detached analysis. He started noticing patterns, recurring mistakes, consistent reactions. It is like reviewing a stranger's poorly edited film, pointing out the plot holes and character inconsistencies.
The tenth time is tedious. He know every line, every expression, every predictable outcome. His own life story has become repetitive, boring. He found myself anticipating scenes, checking them off mentally as they appeared: 'Yep, there's the embarrassing speech.' 'Ah, the misguided attempt at cooking.'
By the fifteenth time, boredom had curdled into a desperate need for distraction. But there was no distraction. Only the straight path, the void, and the endless reel of my past. So, he watch again. And again.
Nineteen times.
Nineteen full cycles of his entire existence, from the first blurry, sensory impressions of infancy to that final, dissolving memory before… this. Nineteen times he has seen myself stumble, soar, love, lose, laugh, and cry. Nineteen times he has witnessed the entirety of his recorded consciousness play out.
And he is still moving. Still floating on this invisible track. His internal clock, a desperate invention in the timeless void, told him it has been roughly nineteen hours and thirty minutes since he has become aware of his state. The journey showed no signs of stopping.
The boredom is a physical ache now, a dull throb in a body that feel like it barely existed. The memories, once vibrant, are losing their sharpness, blurring into a monotonous stream. Yet, driven by nothing but the sheer lack of alternatives, he initiate the twentieth viewing.
Scene one: Birth. A flash of blinding light, the shock of air, a cry. Always so brief, so primal.
Scene two: Growth. Crawling on a carpet, tasting dirt, toddling steps, the first scraped knee. The simple, physical world.
Scene three: Eating. Family dinners, hurried lunches, feasts, comfort food eaten alone. The rituals around sustenance.
Scene four: Sleeping. Curled in a bed, dreams flickering behind closed eyes, the slow descent into unconsciousness, waking up refreshed or groggy. The essential reset.
And then the more complex, emotional, messy parts.
Inspiring someone with a word or an action. The swell of pride and connection. Being embarrassed, the heat rushing to the face, the frantic desire to disappear. The awkwardness that feel like a physical weight fifteen times around, but now just drew a weary sigh. Embracing loved ones, the warmth, the sense of belonging, the quiet comfort of human contact. These moments still held a faint light, even on their twentieth showing. Being motivated, the spark of an idea, the surge of energy to pursue a goal, the drive that pushed past obstacles. The ambition that now felt utterly pointless in this void. Being insulted, the sharp sting of words, the knot in the stomach, the struggle to maintain composure. The echoes of old hurts, now feeling paper-thin.
And yes, all types of idiot. The ill-advised comment at a party, the spectacularly failed attempt at a DIY project, the time he confidently gave completely wrong directions, the moments of spectacular clumsiness, the instances of saying the exact wrong thing at the worst possible time. On the first few watches, these brought tinges of shame or amusement. By the twentieth, they were just... data points.
'Ah yes,' I'd think, 'the idiot moment with the spilled punch.' Or, 'There I am, being an idiot again, thinking I knew how to change a tire.'
Watching these memories this many times, especially the 'idiot' ones and the moments of failure or social awkwardness, has stripped away layers of self-deception. He see himself, truly, without the filters of ego or wishful thinking. He is a flawed, messy, sometimes unintentionally hilarious human being. The forced repetition has become a brutal, involuntary form of self-analysis.
But as the twentieth cycle continued, a new, unsettling feeling began to emerge. It isn't boredom anymore. It is... absence. Like looking at a familiar landscape and noticing that a significant tree is missing, or a house is gone.
There are gaps. Not just fuzzy edges or things he couldn't quite recall in his waking life, but actual blanks in the narrative stream. Moments that should have been there, based on the surrounding events, simply aren't. A conversation starte but isn't finish. A period of time between leaving one place and arriving at another was just... black.
It is like someone has taken scissors to the film reel, snipping out frames randomly. And the more he focus on this missing pieces, the stronger the feeling became: he is forgetting. Not just trivial details, but significant parts of his own story. Or perhaps, they are being removed.
This realization is terrifying. In this unending void, his memories are the only things keeping him tethered to who he is, to the concept of 'me'. If they are incomplete, if they are fading or being erased, what is he? Just a consciousness floating on a track, a ghost of a forgotten life?
The feeling intensified with each passing moment of the twentieth viewing. The phantom gaps became more prominent, the sense of something vital being just out of reach, just beyond the edges of the projected scenes.
What am i missing? What was I supposed to remember?
He strain against the invisible flow, a futile gesture in this placeless expanse. He try to force the missing memories into existence, to conjure the missing pieces through sheer willpower. But there is nothing. Only the straight path, the repetitive memories, and the growing, unnerving awareness of emptiness within his own past.
The twentieth cycle finally reach its conclusion, the final moments – whatever they are before this – fading into the pervasive darkness. He sigh, a soundless exhalation in the void. Twenty times. And he is still here, still moving. Still forgetting.
The realization hit him then, with the force of a physical blow. He is completely, utterly lost. Not just lost in space, but lost within himself. His identity is becoming fragments, the edges fraying with each forced repetition.
And then, it happened.
Without a sound, without a jolt, without any possible explanation, he stopped.
The relentless motion, the constant, silent glide along the unseen track, ceased instantly. One moment he is moving, the next he is perfectly still.
The stillness is more jarring than the endless movement has been. It is absolute, an impossible anchor in the placeless void. His non-existent senses screamed at the sudden lack of momentum. It feel… unnatural. Violating the fundamental rule of this strange existence.
He look around, though there is nothing to look at. Just the infinite, featureless blackness. There is no landmark, no signpost, nothing to indicate why he has stopped here, of all places, after travelling for what felt like an eternity. There is nothing around him. Just… he, suspended in the void, utterly motionless.
A profound silence descended, deeper than the usual quiet of the void. It is a silence, heavy with anticipation. Every part of him consciousness, every echo of sense, strained against the nothingness, waiting.
And then, space ripped open.
It isn't tear with a sound, but with a visual and sensory violence that is breathtaking. In the blackness before him, the void began to distort, to twist inwards. Like a fabric being pulled from the center, the nothingness stretched and warped, colors appearing where none had been before – swirling, impossible hues of violet, green, and searing white, mixed with deeper, hungry reds.
It spun. Faster and faster, the distortion growing into a funnel, a maelstrom of improbable light and shadow. It is a vortex, a cosmic drain opening directly in front of him. It pulse with an energy that he could feel pressing in on him, not as a physical force, but as a pressure on his very being.
And then, the suction began.
It is immediate, overwhelming. Like being caught in an impossible current, he is drag towards the mouth of the spinning, tearing void. There is no resistance he could offer, no direction he could turn, no way to escape. The stillness of moments before is utterly annihilated by this sudden, violent pull.
The vortex grew larger, its hungry maw widening to encompass his entire field of awareness. The swirling colors intensified, becoming a blinding, chaotic storm. The feeling of being pulled stretched and distorted him, not just his non-existent body, but his consciousness itself. Memories, fragments of the past he has just spent twenty times reviewing, flashed involuntarily before his internal sight, mingling with the terrifying, beautiful chaos of the vortex. The forgotten memories, the missing pieces, feel like they are being ripped away completely as he is drawn into the unknown.
The edge of the vortex reached him. The tearing, warping energy enveloped him. There was a final, silent rush, a sense of everything collapsing in on itself, of being compressed and pulled apart all at once.
And then, nothing. Just the terrifying, exhilarating plunge into the heart of the tearing space, leaving the silent void and the endless, straight path behind. He is suck into the vortex, going somewhere, anywhere, but no longer floating aimlessly. His past fractured behind him as he hurtled into whatever lay beyond the rip in reality.