This lucidity is miraculous.
Its stubborn perseverance through malaise has almost proven endearing, even.
And yet, despite its tenacity, it remains utterly futile. Because I’ve come to prefer the mercy of dreamless unconsciousness, which, in a somewhat wry turn of events, has suddenly decided to make itself an elusive state of mind.
Just my luck, I suppose.
I’ve mulled over the idea of drafting some cautionary writeup, all the while gaslighting myself into believing I’d be noble for warning people of this skulking malevolent force. But I’m not noble. And this recount isn’t cautionary.
Because its subject is inexorable.
So it’s become lost to me as to why I’m even composing this admittedly vain piece of writing. Regardless of its purpose, though, its intent remains the same—to outline the phenomenon that’s destroyed me.
Still, I’m hesitant. As I try to convince myself to simply express what happened, I can feel this looming dread prodding me with increasing intensity. I’m slowly becoming disdainful toward my past self for insisting this might be a good idea.
I’ll relent, though. I almost feel urged to let this be known.
One could certainly write this off as a conspiratorial assertion, but I think it was a malicious act, wicked intent interlacing its every facet. I’ve even begun to visualize this jeering astral being surrounded by its metaphysical cronies, their weird bout of celestial fraternization resulting in the concoction of a comic scheme:
“Let’s hide a mind-rending anomaly in someone’s TV.”
And my TV, presumably at random, ended up as the subject of this sardonic attempt at jest.
Some more stellar luck, there.
Over a few days, my television’s picture quality deteriorated. What began as a minor discoloration eventually made itself into a distracting distortion, almost entirely obscuring what was happening on-screen.
Immediately acknowledging the TV’s inability to be salvaged would’ve certainly been the better decision for both my spare time and mental state. But hindsight, by its unforgiving nature, proves to be absent during stupid-as-hell decisions.
And so I reluctantly decided to attempt some sort of repair, only after my ritualistic hoping the issue suddenly ceases to exist had subsided.
Television circuitry never quite constituted a subject I knew much, if anything, about, so I tentatively threw myself into the labyrinthine thicket of online tutorial videos in search of aid. At some point, I managed to dredge up what I thought to be an acceptable video before beginning the process with somewhat uncharacteristic eagerness.
As a hoarse voice began to project itself out of my phone’s speaker, my television drunkenly prostrated itself on my mattress, lolling about as if exhausted by its draining hours of RGB projection.
A stressful flurry ensued as I painstakingly attempted surgery on the electronic, pausing and rewinding the video playing on my phone while I struggled to follow what were actually quite clear and concise instructions. Eventually, I took a break from my amateur wire adjusting and listlessly peered at the exposed section of the TV.
I promptly felt this weird twinge.
Not one so severe as to arouse any immediate anxiety, but one that gently prodded at a morsel of unease prowling deep in my skull. A certain uncanniness pervaded the sinuous innards, which prompted me to examine them closer in a regrettable act catalyzed by putrid, life-shifting curiosity.
I decided to fetch a tape measure before testing my latent theory—and it was true.
The exposed section of the television extended deeper than should’ve been geometrically possible.
Each end of the television’s inner chassis remained obediently attached to its relative side as it should’ve been, but a hideous concavity beyond those edges committed the offense.
After double, triple, quadruple, and quintuple-checking my measurements on both the inner and outer sides of the television, I came to the preposterous conclusion that the outer side of the television measured at three-quarters of an inch—while the same shared inner side impossibly sunk an inch deep.
I’d even at one point sought the more sturdy assistance of a ruler as opposed to my tape measure’s wavering form, as I’d begun to unjustly blame the tool’s inherent flexibility for what could’ve only been discerned as an illusion before me.
But it didn’t change anything.
Euclid would’ve shuddered.
Of course, I initially sought the comfort of denial. True as it may have been, the idea that a law-of-physics-breaking impossibility lurked within the television I’d ordered online nine months ago should’ve been met with skepticism.
And yet one stood right before me. An unachievable structure based in physical reality, measured and verified.
Still, I refused to recognize it as such. I ended up disregarding the occurrence as an illusion fabricated by fatigue before I continued the repair process, blissful ignorance still mercifully fogging my mind.
The electronic monolith soon had its rear panel firmly reattached, and upon its wicked platform, it was eventually replaced, ever imposing.
—
While I’d been generally unperturbed by the event afterward, bouts of anxiety occasionally slithered their way into my mind, which I regrettably dismissed.
Why fret over it even if it happened to be true? It might’ve been strange, but it was inconsequential.
It was harmless.
If only humans had been predisposed with some primal fear of anomalous geometrical idiosyncrasies. Then my coping might’ve been replaced with something less pathetic and more useful, like hysterical shrieking as I destroyed the electronic with whatever household objects were in arms reach at the time.
But I unfortunately only ever possessed the preexisting inclination to fear spiders in all of their gangling, octuple-legged abhorrence.
So coping it was.
As if directly begotten by my dismissive introspection, a second series of malfunctions eventually surfaced. The familiar glitching immediately had me rolling my eyes and grumbling. Irritation and self-doubt engulfed me, but I ended up relenting (which I’m coming to realize I too often do) as I conceded to repair the electronic once more.
I grudgingly broke free of my mattress’s tendrils and quickly began gathering the necessary tools for the repair process, my haste now less inspired by eagerness and more so by a desire to finally quell the nagging issue.
In contrast with the last repair, I decided to turn the television around on its stand and leave it upright. At that point, I suppose I’d become confident enough in my ability to execute the repair without the assistance of my mattress.
That, and I didn’t feel like lugging my TV over to it again.
A familiar gravelly timbre soon started being projected out of my phone’s speaker, before I unscrewed what parts needed to be unscrewed, and unsnapped what parts needed to be unsnapped.
And then I removed the covering.
I refuse to fault those who read the following for their imminent skepticism.
I looked into interminability itself, a yawning void whose immeasurable depth glared intensely back.
Behind my TV’s rear covering, a now-exposed pitch-black space extended inward seemingly infinitely. Each side of the interior space loomed for a moment—before completely fading into obscurity as they protracted into the deep gloom.
I blinked for a moment, utterly nonplussed and lethargic in my comprehension. I half-expected the blackness of my eyelids’ shade to remain after opening them, to wholly encompass me as if the void itself.
As I stood there in my state of dubious cognition, my body made a decision on its own.
Something tempted me to do what I did; I know it; some malignant force stole my autonomy, and subsequently guided my hand.
Slowly, but with cryptic purpose, I reached my arm forward until it became entirely enveloped by shadow. A certain sensation crept over my limb as it remained extended into the void’s breadth; a comparable one might be that of submerging an arm into a pool of wriggling leeches and eels, but with the bizarre quirk that the frenzied writhing almost brings comfort.
I can’t say for certain how long I remained in this allured stupor, but, eventually, my faculties were returned to me, and I realized the absurdity of my situation.
I jerked away from the clutches of the void and collapsed into a blubbering heap. My senses failed to process what they were taking in, and my body reacted uncontrollably.
Bile crawled up my throat but couldn’t find a foothold at its summit, eventually slithering back down into the coddling contractions of my stomach. My breathing became splintered; I sucked in air at abnormal intervals, and I shivered in fear and shock and confusion as nervous sweat began to drench my body.
I’m not sure how long I lay there in my disoriented state, but the more I recall the details of the situation, the more chilling it becomes. Because I’d been in the fetal position with my back toward the exposed devil-hovel, its menacing gaze having been trained on my vulnerable crumpled form all the while.
Somehow, I eventually rose to my feet in an incredible display of willpower I hadn’t realized I possessed (or, more likely, it was a stupid fit of courage), fists and eyelids both tensed, both quivering.
A deep breath attempted to soothe me as I struggled to gather myself. I managed to pry open my eyes before limping over to where I’d placed both the covering and the tools I used for its removal.
With shuddering, disobedient limbs, I gathered everything and placed it at the feet of the abyssal maw in multiple agonizingly plodding trips, its obscurity almost beckoning me inside all the while.
I began the process of sealing the wicked expanse with both deliberation and uneasiness. Shivering hands found screw holes and somehow managed to jitteringly fasten steel inside. When the last screw became tightly secured and the hell-hole finally sealed, I collapsed in a metallic cacophony as I released my power drill with abandon.
My stomach churned; it felt as though my guts had awoken in the blackness of my abdomen before thrashing and writhing in some confused bout of chaos. As a migraine seared my skull, I wanted nothing more than to languish into slumber.
And eventually, I did as such, and, against the very pedestal upon which the electronic monolith imposingly stood, I slept for a while, mercifully without the pestilence of dreams.
—
But I soon regrettably awoke.
A sore back and tingling arm greeted me as my encrusted eyes peeled open. I momentarily lay there in a bleary daze, silently begging for the memory of last night’s occurrence to reveal itself as anything but reality.
It didn’t.
Eventually, I found the strength to creak my way into a standing position, not without the help of the leverage of a nearby piece of furniture. As I stood there supported by extraordinarily weary limbs and a cheap end table, the unfortunate reality of the situation crept into my mind uninvited.
Behind me, a stygian form brooded, silent and insidious.
In pursuit of respite from the haunting presence pervading my bedroom, I wearily limped into my living room, my hobbled gait lame and defeated. My couch caught my plummeting body and almost cradled it, as if it knew what I’d experienced and felt empathic.
While being emotionally comforted by a piece of furniture, I underwent some shallow introspection of my circumstances. I momentarily lingered on the idea of outright destruction of the electronic, but, either out of cowardice or latent reverence, I decided against my direct involvement in its demolition. Instead, I opted for disposal.
I then recalled the box it’d arrived in sat in my basement, and I noted that I could place it inside as to minimize contact with its potentially hazardous form.
The task of placing the monolith inside the box seemed insurmountable, but I determined it to be less agonizing to simply contain its repugnance, as opposed to attempting to discard it without a barrier to shield me from its terrible aura.
I’d also decided to employ the admittedly embarrassing assistance of a pair of oven mitts, as in the frantic moments of preparation, no feasible alternative hand coverings had crossed my mind.
Of course, a pair of winter gloves lay neglected in my closet all the while. Not to mention the box of disposable latex gloves tucked away in a kitchen cabinet.
Am I stupid?
When I re-entered my bedroom, mitt-clad and with box in hand, I could still feel a malicious gaze piercing through glass and plastic and metal, unimpeded by worldly obscurations.
Despite my entire body begging me not to go near the monolith once more, despite my shadow-touched arm searing in absolute and overriding agony, I approached the monolith with its tomb firmly in my grip.
I then angled the box to where it only became necessary to slightly tilt the monolith and have it slide inside, where it should be sealed away indefinitely. With a tentative yet firm grip on its base, I, in one sweeping motion, turned and pulled it toward the edge of the entertainment stand. Momentum then became the monolith’s undertaker, yanking it straight into its aptly-angled sepulcher.
The moment I heard the cathartic thunk of something hitting the bottom of the box, I instantly abandoned my floral-patterned hand coverings and closed the flaps before frantically taping over them several times.
Just after the final piece of tape became fastened, a moment of relief fleetingly visited me. And it held significance as my most recent memory where I felt something that might’ve been discerned as positive.
Because after I’d taken the box to a waste management facility and placed it on a large pile of unwanted electronics, the moment I got back in my car a sudden empty feeling split my chest. And that feeling lingered.
So I uncharacteristically sought help.
Diagnosis of schizophrenia or psychosis would be the most fortunate news I’d ever receive in my life, but I’m woefully afflicted with a healthy state of mind; at least, according to my general practitioner. Obviously, I didn’t share with her the explicit details of what I’d experienced, as that would’ve skewed her opinion more toward my belonging in a straightjacket, rather than it being one impartially based on my objective state of mind.
Any mental health professional would’ve heard my story and instantly deduced that some reality-warping mental disorder brought about my experience. And such a diagnosis might have been completely valid had I not actually experienced what I did.
Of course, I’m not so immersed in the weirdness of this recollection as not to realize this whole spiel has sounded like some dogmatic rant of rampant, unbridled delusion. But I promise you—I witnessed this horror. Hallucination can’t explain this away; believe me, I wish it could. What I saw unconditionally, absolutely, and empirically based itself in reality.
I touched the void; I felt its slithery tendrils, its oppressive pall. It bored into me.
And it’s still here.
It’s gone, but it’s still here.
My limbic system has betrayed me, incessantly tormenting me with harrowing visions brought on by the unassuming malevolence of memory. I’m devoured by degenerate contemplations of what might’ve transpired in that wretched hollow, what malformed abominations might’ve flopped and floundered, what purulent cankers might’ve oozed and festered.
Dreamless unconsciousness has left entirely. The few moments of sleep I manage to grasp are bedeviled by weird dream worlds of ghoulish shadow creatures, their shrill brays reverberating endlessly in my mind even after I wake.
Even blinks have become affliction—I know the blackness I see when my eyes close is a malicious one, a beckoning one.
And more affliction arises from the implications made by this phenomenon’s very existence, the irrefutable fact that the laws of physics can be broken and twisted and perverted with such ease haunting me the most.
Because unlike in the microcosmic insignificance of our justice system, there can be no repercussions when an ontological outlaw commits an existential offense. The metaphysical miscreant can never be captured, tried, or convicted of their geometrical infractions.
We’ll be left alone, huddled and shuddering in the corner of the rustic shack that is rationality as we aim futile shotguns at our door, hoping for the arrival of nonexistent cosmic authorities. But the astral scoundrels will make their way in. And they’ll jeeringly torment us and our families with their hideous sideshow displays of logic crime.
What can even be made of this? What else can be trusted? What else is infested by shadow?
Logic already lied; reality deceived us. This is a weird world of cruel voids and malevolent nothingnesses who skulk in our homes, eagerly waiting to tempt those naive enough to succumb to the allure of their murky gaze.
If only I hadn’t been so susceptible myself.
This arm, God, how it sears.
Wild, eager convulsing pervades this withering limb so much to the point where I’ve conceded that some kind of shadow-blight must have taken it. I’ve tried to ignore it until now, but the feeling has become more frequent, prodding my arm’s nerves with gradual persistence.
But, slowly, the prodding has almost become a gentle tracing.
A caressing, even.
A caressing that brings me something I’ve been lacking for a while now.
A caressing that brings me pleasure.
It’s almost as though this touch wants to tell me everything I’ve experienced should be revered, not reviled. The feeling it arouses doesn’t stem from any earthly origin; I might even posit that any being confined within this pitiful realm has never quite experienced what I’m feeling now.
Admittedly, I think a certain admiration can be gleaned from the concept of a force that can bend reality with such ease. It could be discerned that this phenomenon magnificently demonstrated absolute authority over the docile logic of this lowly plane.
I previously mentioned I’d experienced sleep plagued by strange dream-worlds and malignant shadow creatures, a statement that, while accurate to a degree, was deceitful.
The visions in my dreams were of myself gadding about among these creatures in some void-realm of weird logic. We yipped and yawped as we frolicked through inky mires and shaded gardens, our ululations converging to form a guttural melody that echoed infinitely throughout shadowscapes.
Mental throes and daunting retrospections become fiction in this plane of maligned umbrage, instead replaced by a hedonistic ecstasy that expunges all strife.
It’s become clear to me I’ve been blessed by the presence of something ineffably great, something utmost in its splendor, something all-encompassing in its glory. This void—it’s misunderstood, well and truly misunderstood. What I felt within its confines scoffed at our means of pleasure-seeking. Sexual gratification pales in the shadow of that felt by spending one-centillionth of a zeptosecond within this realm’s boundaries.
And I ache to feel it once more.
The monolith still stands. I know it does; I can feel the shadow-blight inside my arm wriggling and writhing in idiotic glee, eager to return to its tenebrous utopia.
I’ll get it back; through what means is unimportant.
Just know I will.
And when I finally have it once again, I’ll rip open its tomb and remove its seal before leaping inside, free to swim in its plumbless abyssal pools, free to roam in its boundless nebulous caverns, free to hear the murk-harpies piping mirthful dirges of disquiet and the gloom-cherubs belting jubilant hymns of woe.
I’ll be free from hate and fear and angst and love and lust and want, molded into something of otherness by the electronic monolith, its violent dimensions corrupting and confounding, beckoning and beguiling, wholly transforming those fortunate enough to be graced by its touch and gaze into exultant acolytes of the ever-splendorous Void, our howls rhapsodically resonating in twilit skies, pervading the firmaments of countless realms of dusk, persisting in and between every speck of shadow of dream and reality in an eternal song of rapturous gloaming.
Extolled be the Void who in our everything skulks.
Patiently.
And hungrily.