Since I began experimenting with concepts, my small universe had transformed. It was no longer just an infinite void filled with scattered particles; now, each spark had a purpose, each cluster reflected an idea, an intention.
However, I had only three basic concepts and had already consumed 80% of the available particles with them. So, I decided to take a break for the time being.
Watching the functioning of the miniature city, I noticed that the particles followed their routines exactly as I had designed. Thanks to certain concepts, the system became much more… independent. If one could even call it autonomy.
Since then, new concepts had been created, keeping interaction as a reference to measure how far I could go. And it was one of these new concepts that gave rise to the almost autonomous city: the concept of thought.
At the time, I thought that perhaps by giving the particles the ability to think, one of them might interact with me and generate new ideas.
But it quickly became clear: these thoughts were mine, not the particles'… It was as if, back then, I had been mad, hearing voices everywhere. Now, they were the thoughts of the particles — or at least, that's how it seemed.
Despite the "noise pollution" that this concept generated, it was extremely useful. The particles gathered more autonomously; they would still be commanded from time to time, but they could already follow simple orders that didn't require precision.
"I have to buy bread."
I watched a particle crossing the street, heading to the bakery. I appreciated the autonomy, but there was a problem… the bakery was in the opposite direction.
Looking at the city filled with these cases, where every detail required micro-management, my excitement slowly died.
I grew tired of the city's façade. Without the interest sustaining it, it reorganized itself, condensing into a single ball of light. Everyday thoughts disappeared, and absolute silence reigned again.
I returned to my old experiments.
Looking at that cluster of particles forming a giant particle, I thought:
"What would happen if I destroyed it?"
My purpose was simple — or so it seemed. Since I could not generate new particles, perhaps by further decomposing what I already had, I could discover a way to create them. It was a quest to understand the very essence of what constituted them.
I focused on a single particle and crushed it with all my will, ordering it to dissolve. It began to tremble and soon split into even smaller particles, until it became an almost ethereal dust.
Zooming in on this dust/gas — or rather, focusing my will — I realized it was made of micro-particles, and I still had control over all of them. So I shrank it even further.
Looking at the whitish gas, I realized I had reached the limit of what I could achieve — I barely had any control over it, and concepts had no effect on it.
In the end, however, I could not generate a new particle from this state. The energy was always too precise, just enough to restore the original particle, without creating anything beyond it.
"Sigh…"
The sensation the gas transmitted was that of matter being degraded. If a concept represented ultimate elevation, the gas was its opposite: the bottom… not below that, but the most primitive base of reality.
I let the gas recombine into a particle, since I could not work with it. As I prepared to resume experiments, I sensed a familiar anomaly.
A small "rain" of particles began crossing my domain — though I called it rain, it resembled more a meteor shower. Each period brought at most 103 particles, but the name stuck.
Feeling a particle traveling through the domain, a thought that had crossed my mind many times resurfaced:
"Where do they come from?"
Since I had paused my experiments to capture particles, I thought: why not also explore their origin? And that's exactly what I did.
I focused on the limits of my existence. I could not perceive what lay beyond, but I felt the boundaries as if they were my old skin. From the feeling it transmitted, I sensed that on the other side there was… nothing. What exactly is nothing? — I don't know. I only knew that there was nothing out there.
With this crude answer gnawing at my mind, I changed plans: it was time to explore the world outside my domain.
I started simply, experimenting with a single particle. However, once it left my domain, it lost connection instantly and could not return, not even as rain.
Before, I would have stopped there. But now it was different. With so many particles already accumulated, and no prospect of more elaborate experiments, I began experimenting with the nothing itself.
I also tested with gas made of smaller particles and obtained a curious result: when I sent the gas outside, it returned condensed as a single wild particle. Yet, as before, no new particle appeared — the process only restored what already existed.
*"So particles can survive the nothing…" Yes. This proved that nothing did not erase particles; it only broke my connection with them.
And what if I strengthened my connection? I knew that the greater the particle's energy, the stronger my connection with it would be.
Soon, I gathered some particles close together and sent them into the nothing. For a brief moment — an extremely short time — I managed to maintain a connection with them, feeling each movement and occurrence, until, occasionally, I lost all contact. The experiment was a success.
Then I moved to phase two:
I began fusing all my particles into one. Quickly, a singular particle emerged — similar to the others, but distinct: it was the union of a great number of particles. To make this possible, I had to turn off the interaction concept on the particles, allowing the fusion to occur without restrictions.
I could have requested the fusion while keeping the interaction concept, but when I tried, I felt I risked breaking it — something I still needed to preserve. It was another test to be done, a question that intrigued me: what would happen if a concept broke?
Leaving that for later, I launched a singular particle into the nothing and focused all my attention on it. The effect was almost magical: a particle, devoid of any means to perceive reality around it, still capable of sensing forces interacting with it. Nothing, then, was not really nothing for this particle — there was something there, and soon a more significant event occurred.
A particle — at another time, singular — began manifesting in multiple points at once. It was not a division in the conventional sense, but as if the same entity existed simultaneously in multiple places.
To my senses, it looked like a gas of multiple particles — particles that, in the end, were only one. A fascinating phenomenon.
However, my connection began to become unstable. Just before losing it completely, I felt the particle return to a single, unique form. And as it collided with something unknown, I lost all connection.
"Success."
Despite the massive loss of particles, leaving me with almost nothing, this proved that there was something in the nothing. Calling it "nothing" seemed strange now.
Looking at the remaining particles, vibrating from my good mood, I realized I needed to replenish my stock.
Now, I was almost out of particles and only had three concepts. I returned to my routine of particle collection until I had enough to explore the nothing or experiment again.