Into the Void

I awoke, not to my reflection, but to a reflection of myself.

It was but a moment before the room faded. An unwavering fog descended, dissolving the walls like a snowball in the sun. The thrumming of my heart; the sound of my breath; the tickle of the sheets on my toes; All fell silent in it's wake.

I am unsure how long I remained, blanketed in such a stillness. Time seemed to stretch and compress of it's own free will, dodging any attempt to latch on.

Sound was non-existent. A sense of touch or taste also terrifyingly absent.

Panic began to settle in as I combed my mind for perspective. What happened? Where was the familiar hold of gravity or my tongue against my teeth? The pulse of the veins in my neck? Even my sense of warmth; temperature; as though it had never existed to begin with.

Those familiar sensations that never quite disappear, even in sleep, eradicated.

I feared the worst. The most basic parts of my psyche already churned in preparation. Was I unconscious? Asleep? Comatose? Was I even alive? I faded in and out. Being, not being. Aware and unaware, fighting to find some sort of base line. My final moments wrapping back upon themselves, as if to offer up some hint to my destination.

What was in that needle and why was it not wearing off?

Deep within me, a growing despair was bubbling to life. I couldn't tell exactly, but it felt like some days had already passed. The plan was to wait it out, perhaps in the hope that I would regain consciousness, but I was unsure sure how much longer I could do so. I was growing weaker. I could tell. I had given up lying to myself about that much. I was almost used to the periods of nothing, of half nothing, but the prospect of remaining in such a state was beginning to overwhelm.

It was time. I had to do something soon or I would buckle under the strain.  Time for one final push before I tapped the mat.

For the first time in what appeared to be weeks, I forcibly calmed myself.  Stepping beyond the simulated tears and imagined anguish. They were useless. It all was. The rage, the sorrow, all of it.

It was time to ask some questions, without any of the chaff.

Methodically, I picked at the threads. What have I tried? What have I not? What was I missing?

I went down the list of my body's functions. Bit by bit, piece by tiny broken piece. I knew, there had to be a clue. As I went through the paces, I started to realize that much of my brains functioning was still in proper order. I could do math. I could spell. I could recite lines from movies. Each time I went through the checks and balances though, I felt like I was missing something. I could recall events. Information. Recipes and jokes. What was I overlooking?

And then it occurred to me. I wasn't picturing any of it. Everything was boiled down to it's bare components. It's concept. I knew what I should be picturing, but it did not appear in my minds eye.

When I decided to take the ability through it's paces, prodding at it's edges, I happened upon my second clue. It took some effort, but I could slowly picture things in finer detail. Hazy. Flickered. Like playing back a damaged tape. I could recall things I already knew, like my favorite place, or my Lover's face.

But creating something new was impossible. No matter the effort.

As I tried, I started to realize what had been done to me. The sleight of hand. The sleight of mind. Somehow, I had jumped tracks. The ability;  No, the want, to create new things, slid out from under me like a cheap parlor trick.

The realization started small. A trickle turned tidal. Waves of light dancing about me as I came to realize where I was. The horizon screamed to life, as thoughts erupted into images around me. Once the illusion was dispelled, it scattered like doves on the wind.

I was already lucid. The mechanism simply lacked my direct input.

Be it a dream, or otherwise, I was very much alive. I soared through the void, the last matryoshka, in hand.