A Dark Corner

One day, I found myself in utter darkness and silence. It was pitch black—darker than anything I had ever experienced. The closest comparison I can recall is when you shut your eyes tightly, but even then, your other senses still function, and your imagination fills in the blanks with a rough outline of your surroundings.

But here—no sounds, no movement, no light. Just complete darkness and silence.

I wondered: Where am I? Am I in an open space? Inside a room? A pod? How big is this place? Did I go to bed last night?

I don’t know. I can’t remember.

I tried to move—my arms, legs, and head—but nothing happened. Or maybe something did… I just couldn’t tell. I don’t even know if I have those body parts anymore.

I remember who I am—my home, family, life experiences—but the memory feels detached. As if I don’t want to carry it, or it may not want to reside within me.

These memories—they don’t feel like mine. More like a shared pool I can access when needed. As if memory is a field, and I’m simply reaching into it. For a moment, I wondered: What if this is the true reality, and everything else I’ve known was just a manifestation?

I feel weightless, like a balloon drifting aimlessly through the sky.

As quantum mechanics suggests—everything is a wave. Right now, I feel like I am the wave.

Maybe what I once thought was “me” was just a collapsed version of this field: Me, plus memory, plus… something else. I even wonder who the “I” is—who the observer is.

Wait a minute… Am I dreaming?

This could be a dream, and they hold endless possibilities.

I remember a professor in my undergraduate physics class once asked, “What travels faster than the speed of light?”

Everyone answered, “Nothing.”

He smiled and said, “Wrong—dreams and imagination.”

“You can imagine both ends of the universe in a few seconds,” he said. “Faster than light.”

Maybe that’s where I am now. Maybe I’m dreaming, and these thoughts—these sensations—are moving faster than light. Or am I the thought? throttling through dimensions of space and time.

Until now, in that other world—where my body and mind were fully manifest—everything felt obvious. Taken for granted. Concepts like “I,” “self,” and “memory” never needed defining. They just were.

But here… nothing makes sense.

If I am the thought, then who’s experiencing the past? Who’s holding these memories?

Or am I the experience itself—floating in the pool of thought? Or are they the same thing, just detached from the body?

But why is this so lucid? So real? Dreams aren’t like this.

I’ve had thousands of dreams in my life, and none of them felt anything like this.

Am I lucid dreaming?

Is this sleep paralysis?

I tried to scream—I did—but something felt different.

In the past, when sleep paralysis took over, I was never fully conscious. I couldn’t scream. A shadowy figure would creep into my periphery, slowly trying to consume me. I’d struggle, try to call out—without success—until I finally woke up, drenched in sweat and gasping for relief.

But this time, I’m conscious. I’m not struggling.

So… no. This isn’t sleep paralysis.

Where the hell am I?

Should I be afraid?

Afraid of what?
Honestly, I’d welcome the scariest thing imaginable just for the company. I’d bet even the most terrifying entity wouldn’t enjoy this kind of loneliness—and might eventually become my friend.

Maybe… I’m in a coma.

Maybe I had a stroke or an accident—something that severed my nervous system from my brain. Maybe I’m in a hospital right now, being kept alive.

But coma patients are supposed to be unconscious, disconnected from reality with no awareness.

And I don’t feel like I’m one of them.

Am I awake? I don’t know. Can I respond to my surroundings? I don’t know that either.

But I am thinking. I’m feeling confusion, fear, and curiosity. I’m forming questions. I have memories.

Coma patients aren’t supposed to be aware of anything. But I’m aware of this void. Aware of the absence of everything.

Though I’m inside this black emptiness, I don’t feel lost. I’m thinking. I’m wondering.

So maybe I’m not in a coma—unless there’s something about the mind in that state I don’t understand. And to be fair, I’ve never been in one before.

Most of the darkness I’ve experienced in life has been heavy and suffocating—filled with fear, whether of a presence or of being alone.

But this… is different.

I don’t feel cold or warm. I don’t feel pain. I don’t even feel my heartbeat.

Am I even breathing?

It’s as if I’ve been completely severed from the external world—from all my sensory neurons. Trapped in perfect sensory deprivation.

No sensation at all.

It’s like I’ve ceased to exist physically. And yet… I’m still here.

Still me.

Still conscious.

I can think. I can reflect. I can manifest memories.

So… am I just living inside my consciousness?

Or is this what it looks like—when consciousness is all that remains?

I can think. I can reflect. I can manifest memories.

So… am I just living inside my consciousness?

Or is this what it looks like—when consciousness is all that remains?