Impossible In Between

I can't recall my first breath. I've not yet experienced my last breath. As long as I write, I must be somewhere in between. Is there a time between the moment the switch is flipped and light surges across space? How long is that moment, where the electrical current can begin its race, to start an even swifter messenger, as the bulb emits countless bright emissaries?

I spent so long living in the corridor. Through the planet, but between worlds. No need to age, for we also ride in the space between that last second, and this next one. When I left I didn't know if I would be able to bring that particular peculiar space with me. In between not being seen and making things to be seen through, I didn't know what could actually go through the transfer.

The real trick was always the light. Some of our lost cousins must have misunderstood and heard "flight." But youthful japes and swords and capes will eventually leave you trapped and lost. It's when you can get the lens, the lens of the inward glass to show you where the light bends to touch the space where there is no light, that you see, there, where the barrier between the two pretends to exist, the way through.

It doesn't matter which side you're on, though things are quieter, slower, in that space between. After all, only the mad would claim such a thing exists; the line where light meets its absence, and the thin doorway it makes in the neutral country that is the border itself. Grab a hold of that edge, pull it wide, walk through. Timelessness in the bright hall of the suspended light.

I've made my wares, impossible as they are, and I know I've got time in here. Someone is coming. They're going to change everything about this world. And it won't change anything. Except for this world. They've been sent by a brother. A long long lost brother. What are we fools up to? Who would dare to change anything? Is this the opposition field the corridor warned of?

Our youth was not youth, but did not change. We could do all the play work we wanted. Being free from causal consequences, so too was our work, ultimately; all just speculation. Turn yourself into a prism for the mind and tell me how easy it is for you to push so much as a feather. There was no rule against departure, just as there was no judgment. Maybe it was a secret graduation. Maybe such things don't matter inside the corridor, and it's just us lost souls worrying about such things. Or anything at all.

The opposition field. I think that's the truth of transfer. I know of no brothers who did not immediately set to making things. I know of none that sought fame, fortune, or control, but I do know we have all immediately made something. Or many things. That a soul could expand and find itself naught but passionate flame when faced with the tangible. What astonishment, what irresistible ecstasy drowns the self, muting it in agonized bliss. Knowing what is lost but what is also now at hand. To see a work come to fruition and be.

So why step back into my own drop of light? Perhaps there are some brothers who know, "As above, so below..." What seemed to effect change is so localized. So frail. Perhaps I already knew when I lent impossible form to quickly cooling glass. Is the universe doomed to the ephemeral? Impossibly permeated by meaninglessness?

No. I know where this leads and it is worse than any corridor. I am here to stand against the avatars of this doomed, self-pitying view. I will emerge again. I will see my brothers again. I may have found some wisdom here, hidden from the hungry veil, and I will someday emerge. But there is still some work to be done, and, hark, I do hear the wings of just violence. They will be at my doorstep soon and I must be prepared.