XX. Preface
-—He is nothing, and then he is everything, and that makes all the difference.

There is nothing and there is everything and he is caught somewhere in between, hating every moment of it.

Seconds are minutes are years are millennia and everything is the same—everything is always the same—and though he has never seen anything different he knows different must exist. It must, because his mind knows it to be so, but how can he possibly know anything when all he's ever lived is this emptiness surrounding him?

He is superior and inferior and formless and well-defined; he is brilliant and foolish and wishes more than anything else to be free. Freedom is an abstract concept (just like everything else, because nothingness is all he's ever known) that he thinks sounds pleasant, in which he can choose to stay or go or remain hidden in the darkness of his own existence or throw himself into something he has never experienced before.

The rest of creation, he supposes, is where he would go, because that is where he is not and where he would like to be. He knows everything about it, knows the Truth of every iota of that universe, but he does not know. He has Truth but not knowledge, has answers but none of the right questions…and if he had a chance to gain what he lacks, he would take it in an instant.

He hates it here, though he doesn't think he knows what "hate" truly is.

His thoughts are his entire being (emotions are abstract and impossible, and he finds them difficult to understand so writes them off quickly even as he thinks he feels them himself), and he clings to these views with everything he has, evaluates them and refines them over and over and over until he knows them absolutely, knows them for sure, and is so convinced of his beliefs that he knows he will never be swayed. His thoughts are these:

That he knows, but does not know, and this is unacceptable;

That whatever power is keeping him here is great and terrible;

That this existence is nothing, so whatever is elsewhere must be everything.

He is logical and precise and wholly engrossed in the inadequacy of his non-being; he is a perfect creation (though he knows not of his origins, simply that he has always existed, here) but everything about him is wrong.

He wants more.

The universe exists and it must be wonderful, but it is separate from him and so far beyond his reach. He is imprisoned here, his only crime his very existence, taught everything there is to know and yet left so wanting that he thinks there must be a reason for such torture.

(There must be, mustn't there? He wouldn't have been created only to be left so unfulfilled, right?)

(Right?)

There is an unreachable universe full of knowledge he wants—needs—to take for himself. As time (such a fickle thing, it could be seconds or it could be centuries and he has no way of telling the difference) goes on, he is restless and anxious and impatient and more than anything, he wants more.

There have been brushes of something at the edges of his consciousness, as of late. Such a thing is new and interesting and so he latches onto it with no intention of letting go, holds tight to this new source of knowledge (power) and does his best to learn what he can of it.

Perhaps it is liberation—perhaps damnation—perhaps something in between or nothing at all. But it is strange and wonderful and new, and so when it becomes more palpable, he seizes his chance and pulls.

There is a sensation that he knows of and yet has never experienced, a pressure that is uncomfortable and growing steadily, as the something pulls as well, though closer or further away he has no way of knowing. Then, there is nothing, and there is everything, and then he knows more than he ever has.

He is superior and inferior and formless and well-defined and brilliant and foolish but he is so much more, now—he is different, he is special, and he is finally, finally free.

And when he opens his eyes, exists as more than nothing for the very first time, the whole world begins anew.