Hell is, knowing that things end because that’s what they do. They end and change and become something different. It is both the curse and a blessing of existence.
It’s after his last death that things switched from normal to this, surrounded by a nothing, a purple nothing that felt like static or white noise on his body. It takes an eon or two to realize that he is nothing also and that he does not have a body and that it is more habit then necessary to call himself a he.
What am I then? He wonders, as things that he experienced in his existence spin through his mind.
One such memory settles, and he is a blade of grass living on the very uppermost portion of Mount Everest that can support such things. His life exists for less than a day. He sprouted and grew and was ripped from the soil, thrown into the air by a sharp gust of wind. He soared high on the wind for hundreds of miles to land in the seemingly waiting maw of a holy cow standing in a field somewhere deep inside India.
But knew greater pointlessness when he was a boy from Brooklyn who died in a soft bed surrounded by people he loved.
Another time he was a rock slowly melting into a stream of lava.
And now?
He was, but that proved never to be enough, so he settles deeper into the purple static searching. He searches for something that could represent meaning. A meaning worth existing in for all time.
Stories 