Finding the Something

Not long ago, on a day much like any other, I became paralyzed by the Nothing. Like dusk, it descended all around me. It was akin to a mysterious fog, invisible but for the slightest vibration among the still, heavy air. To discern its source or character seemed impossible, yet the silent roar could not be muffled. Though it could not be seen, its stench lingered, a remnant of the horrors washed upon mankind in its wake. Afflictions credited to something were frequently caused by the Nothing. Yet, all continued to insist that the Nothing did not exist.

I asked why.

To stave off madness? Indeed, so horrid a thing can hardly be conceived. Yet, it breathes all around me. If I am mad, the Nothing has won, but the slight chance I am not prompts me to describe the misfortune of awakening adrift at its edge, then snatched within. The few who have escaped are loath to recollect its horrors, if they could even identify the source. I would certainly rather forget. But, for love of even my most wicked adversary, I submit these observations to allow for the Nothing's identification should circumstance will its proximity. This is not an easy task. Indeed, the fact that it is called the "Nothing" scarcely hints at its deceptive and amorphous nature. Perhaps only a fool endeavors to describe a thing that is not, yet conscience compels me to do so in a quest for truth. It can be confirmed by reason and the balance of my earthly experience that no soul, no matter how spiteful, wretched, or numb, deserves a fate so uniquely seductive and vicious as to be swallowed by the Nothing.

It might have been the Nothing described by fantasy novelist Michael Ende, but so perverse and vacuous that its identification invokes instant dread of accidentally traipsing beyond its event horizon. So void and pernicious are the jaws of this sphere that imagination itself seems its only competent adversary...simply for diversion or denial. Alas, how could I turn my head from so curious an animal? Souls whipped to or from as I stood calmly, facing its core directly. I stepped blithely forward. In hindsight, it seems that no aware victim doomed to this vortex would reject submission to its core directly, stretched efficiently into two, then four, then sixteen pieces. A fate such as this, while terrifying, seems far preferable to the dizzying trek that began for me along the fringes of its gravitational field.

Its first offering was sweet and delicious; a soft word of adoration. These sounds were convincing enough to flatter, and attractive to those even slightly adrift in its most remote regions of influence as I was. Soothing and agreeable to the listener, I must warn that these words are actually torn from the Nothing's lips with such reluctance that a blood-curdling shriek is heard by all who float nearer than its most remote target. Such effort is required by the Nothing to utter these incantations that its great body, spanning light years, is reduced to the brink of death as a consequence. It shudders in horror that such depraved a sacrifice is necessary to invite the intended subjects, but the distant bounty is most precious to the Nothing. To me, these utterances were the sound of life, springing forth from the most pure and humble sympathies of mankind. I approached them openly. In fact, they were the opposite. They were words so removed from the hearts and minds of man that none unfamiliar with the nature of the Nothing could conceive the possibility of their existence. Their subtlety was matched only by their wrath. Yet, I continued as a lone wealthy man among a pack of thieves, each fearful of one another as I strolled past, untouched.

Once drawn to its outer limits the leisurely pace was calm and hypnotic. I gradually drifted into a distant orbit, lulled by suggestion in a sea of diluted contentedness. The gentle ride was soothing, and I found myself given to a mystical trance. While perfectly at ease, the Nothing extended a tendril, which caressed me affectionately. I hardly noticed when it entered my nostril, and remained in a detached stupor as it latched securely to my brain. At this point the exact mechanism is little understood. We know the transfer of knowledge begins without resistance, depicting awe-inspiring images of scenery, natural wonders, and joyful experiences. For me, beautiful waterfalls, sunsets, and visions of innocence; happiness. This portion of the treatment, they say, is always accepted. What follows evokes a unique and unpredictable response in every individual. When the tendril is fully embedded, injustice, deception, envy, and rage are delivered to the unsuspecting prisoner. Discomfort evolves to sadness, then horror as war, death, plague, famine are injected into the cerebral cortex. Practicality prevents personal disclosure of my experience. I will say that before long I writhed in agony, desperate to break free. The struggle grew violent as the organ was stretched, prodded, and squeezed with indiscriminate truths, stark fallacies, and vapid irrelevancies. The pain was excruciating as reason demanded harsh acknowledgment of terrible truths including a vast unknown, growing to tempt superstition. I knew better. Contradictions battled within as my body was spun around the perimeter with increasing velocity. The acceleration pushed me to the exterior while my arms and legs flailed about. The tendril, which had originally pulled me deep into the center, neared exhaustion and attempted to eject me back to the outer ridge as I wrestled with it. As it released I would have broken free if I hadn't, by reflex, grasped one of its serpent-like extremities. Rather than being restored to the realm of the something, I found myself falling back through the chaos of space time. It was a lonely spiral of death, affixed to what remained of the tendril's overwhelming offerings, and the wriggling souvenir I had ripped from its terrible tip. I then found myself free to roam among the nothing, as the many dark tendrils lashed around me harmlessly, and seemed to digest the balance of humanity before my eyes.

The peaceful recesses of the outer journey was soon a distant memory as the frantic air of the middle sphere enveloped me. The region was crowded, and desperation brought us together in a frenzy of exchange, each promising the other a way out. Individuals who joined me at the fringe of this circumference were generally of regular human size. With little hesitation some companions began moving forward, even crawling over one another toward the blackness. With progress each became ever more bloated, expanding exponentially in size. Their heads grew disproportionally to their bodies, first approaching the size of moons, then planets. My hands covered my eyes and I peeked through my fingers as they pulled themselves into the dark torrent, at first with great difficulty, but soon with ease. The mass they accumulated helped pull them toward the center, and the same amount of labor brought an increasing amount of speed. We watched these events come to pass in sadness. We could see that it was all part of the same mechanism; the Nothing's feeding ground. It has one purpose...to fatten its pigs so that they can be swallowed...so that it can build strength for its next shriek. Words can scarcely be arranged to hint at the nature of this manifestation, although I can confirm its existence with complete certainty.

It is not advisable to look directly into the Nothing, a wise man once hinted. Rumor has it, one who looks straight into its depraved center is seduced instantly and consumed. I, however, was not afraid, as I found myself outside its many tubular extremities, and one does not approach its core by any other means. As such, with a calm, investigative disinterest, I directed my powerful looking glass into the darkest portion and turned the region into focus. What befell my eyes can only be described as fantastic. By following one tendril to its source I witnessed the most curious phenomenon. One head had expanded to the size of many suns and whipped in orbit around the center many times a second. Its dizzying speed was further compromised by a furious revolution, spinning like a top at an incalculable rate. From my perspective, little or no sense could be made of it all. Yet, other objects flew in orbit around this giant, further confusing the situation. Every object was locked in a disorderly maelstrom of activity, bouncing against one another, crashing one another into pieces, and so forth.

My eyes do not deceive me, yet my mouth is ill-constituted, and pen insufficient, to utter a description of so dreadful a sight. Yet, I am nonetheless obligated to use the limits of my capacity in good faith that my words are interpreted to derive from without rather than from within. I might begin by depicting the ravenous ingestion of intoxicating liquors, as a dipsomaniac awakens in a panic to quench his addiction. The foundation of the tendril is not the Nothing after all, but a head so engorged that perpetual, systematic consumption is necessary for its sustainance. Indeed, only one tendril emanates from this abysmal source, then sprouts into two, then four, then sixteen more, like branches of a tree. Each junction facilitates the combination of moon-size entities into planets, then planets into stars, then stars into bigger stars. It imbibes through the interrior of the single great tendril, ripping the life from its lessor subjects, who are, surprisingly, the most unsuspecting of victims. Their bodies become twisted and their celestial heads become warped as the giant orb snatches the most engorged, chewing mightily between its blood-spattered lips. The head, which now bears little resemblance to even the most feral human, grows as large as some galaxies, devouring with ease and a maligned gracefulness.

Through the centuries it has often masticated sensibly, but in times of abundance the voracious appetite cannot be suppressed. Its malevolence can only be compared to its merciless, pedantic nature. It does nothing but feed for the sake of feeding and nothing more. It has no other purpose, direction, or meaning than to ingest the balance of humanity into its void.

How does one forewarn of so ubiquitous and cryptid an animal? With sadness I report that conscious action within a tendril almost always accellerates its victom toward the center like a frantic man burried in quicksand. Indeed, loving the captor, and with great effort, they all swim forward. I watch with pain and angst as they struggle towards the Nothing's core, always expecting something else...always expecting something.

In this state I continue to observe, daring not submit to the unknown whims of the Nothing's grasp, yet knowing many an approach to its deepest recesses. Having seen the fate of so many a friend and foe, to enter a tendril evokes dread so great that I fear no degree of human courage or honor could possibly defend one against its severe temptations. For now I consider simply lopping off its horrid tails, and their contents, so that its diet may be reduced.

To starve the Nothing. That is what I shall do.