Wake up!
Awake, he gets up. How did he arrive? Where did he come from? Why? He walks from the white centre of the room to the window wall. He sees a storm. The storm is red. The storm is blue. The storm is purple when it clashes in on itself. The storm is all consuming. Life is far from the storm, but the storm cannot help but be intertwined. See it doesn’t make sense. The storm wasn’t supposed to be here. He knows this. Its coming back, granted to him slowly. He remembers this room and being put here. He remembers feeling a loss, but he doesn’t quite know for what. Wife? Children? Extended family? He asks out to the room. His own mind answers back, greeting him. Acknowledging him. It quickly works with the data given. He sees a child. The boy. The boy had not a solid family. Emotionally Manipulative father. Mother constantly in distress. The boy was entrusted to his care, but he failed. He was separated. By the storm? This he doesn’t yet remember. He feels solemn. What? Why? Because he knows The boy is dead.
He looks out his window. Memories slap his face. They ring of the life The boy had. He sees The boy in his eyes. Sees a beautiful boy. Sees a boy too beautiful for the world. Sees the regret in himself. Memories granted to him again. Not always for better. But granted they remain. Not always for the better. Sometimes things should’ve just stayed hidden.
He watches the storm. Days pass. Months pass. Years pass. Hours pass. Red and Blue, swirling around you. Red and blue, fighting to get to you. Red and blue, who’s to say how much is true? He doesn’t remember still. Nothing has awakened anything. He just liked the madness. He could observe it from on far, from deemed safety, and believe it was all okay. That it was nothing more to him then entertainment. For he was shrouded safely from it. He was at the heart of it. He was the heart of the storm. Maybe the storm’s reason to be, but he would not be injured by it. At most, just inconvenienced. He was in a room with his own struggles nonetheless. A red and blue storm could wait. Red Blue Purple outside, but just white inside. He said he’d rather be with the colours, even if they’d kill him. Why? Who thinks that way? Him at least. He did. I did, he thought. Who? Who was he? Who are we? Who am I? He thought of it, and it was granted. He just asked his mind to give it up, and he received. But sometimes questions and answers mean two different things. He asked who he was. He wanted to be a reality tv host or a pop star. Wanted to be famous and adored. His mind told him he was a quitter and a lazy man. His mind told him he wasn’t capable of being more Then what he was and that what he Wanted wont happen. He wanted to be someone important out there but in here he was a rather unfortunate excuse for fame. He wanted to be a world Renown leader and a personality unmatched. He was weak. Questions and answers don't always mix and match? Do they? Clearly no. Clearly the generalities of it are too general.
Question? Where was he? His mind again gave it willing, holding nothing back from him. He was in a prison of his own making. He was where he put himself. He put himself here to keep himself from a fate of flying death outside. Outside was unstable. Inside was unstable too, but only because of you. He asked his mind if he could stabilize either environment. His mind said he can do anything he believes in. He asked how. His mind said he must understand the problem and acknowledge the problem to solve it. He must validate the problem. Well he saw the storm outside. Was the storm here to tear him apart or was the storm simply a storm? Was the storm simply not his fault and not his burden to bear alone or was it something directly created to hurt him? To keep him locked in his mind? It was a question of ego. He asked his mind and memory. His mind and memory had no concrete answer this time, but it broke it down. He could not see the storm of red and blue, not all of it. He could only see his own side of it. He could only see the inconvenience it caused him. He could not see the source or how hard the storm spun further from his white walls room. He only saw his perspective of the storm. Hence, it couldn’t be known for sure. Hence, he had to deduce himself. Was this massive storm surgically created to keep him here, or was he so small that he couldn’t help but be kept here by it? How big was the storm? He could never truly know. Either option was terrible.
Stabilizing the storm nonetheless could not be done from here. It would require many more people by his side. Right now he had nobody nearby. In this moment which last minutes at max but felt like years. He had to get out of here nonetheless. He asked his mind and memory again. How can he get out? Again, his mind told him to stabilize the environment. He said this was impossible. He had not the amount of people needed to tame the storm, if such an amount of people existed. His mind told him he did not have to. His mind told him he controlled his little space he still had. He had control of his white room, and that there were corners he hadn’t gone to yet. That he couldn’t go to yet. He had to stabilize first. He tried to walk. The floor was so cold. It was so uncomfortable to go forward. It hurt him. Hurt the Soul of his foot. He stopped walking. He sat on the floor. The cold and uncomfortable floors touched his waist sides and his legs, it grabbed on to him. With any force, he could get out of its grasp. He didn’t. He sat in the misery. How could he sit in the misery? He could control himself could he not? He told his mind and memory now, that his white space wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted to free himself of the room and escape the storm to see what was out there, and what he could make his own. He begged for a freedom unearned. His mind and memory simply told him that this white box, while seeming unimpressive, was worth what he would have to do, to get through. He asked his mind and memory, how can I? I have these things holding me down. His mind and memory gave up a former memory, acting on their own now.
The boy fell down. Off of his bike. Off of his average grade score. Off of his friendship. It mattered now. The boy fell down. But he, you, helped him get back up. You raised him up. The boy was on the ground and he thought he’d stay there. He had not the emotional strength alone to go on. But you raised him. He only stayed on the ground because he limited himself to it. Lot Of man did not see the bottom was just what we stood on, not what stood on us. The boy heard you say this, and he stood up. The boy can stand, so You should too. The boy had someone he said. The boy had you. You have you too.
He asked his mind a new question. What did he do? He knew who he was, but was he defined by qualities or actions? Which would he decide? His mind and memory told him not specifics, but he was told he tried. He was told he worked hard, hard for himself, to raise nations from oceans. To create beautiful things. He was told he did try. He couldn’t remember it, but he could remember the energy he expended. He could remember the feeling of trying, of genuinely trying. He could remember. He remembered regret too. He remembered failure. He remembered how bad it was. He didn’t want to go back. Would that be where he ended up if he looked through his white room? How could he let this happen? Was he okay to take a risk and find something he didn’t want to see?
All these questions and answers can do well. All these doubts you need something else to reassure you of. All these theories and databases. All these were in good faith and good spirits. But in the end, he was still in the same place. Something still holding him in place. Something weak, but potent in this room. Something potent to him. Was it The boy? Red and Blue stopped him from advancing, so all he had was his white. He had two options. Stay where he was, held down, bored, and unable to be happy, but it would be easy. It would validate his nature. Us. He would feel right in this place, but he knew it wasn’t right to stay. But it would be so much easier. But it would be boring. But it would feel right. Option two saw him walking out to his world, exerting the effort again to get up and change himself. It wouldn’t feel right, and he could end up right back here, as he feared He always might have, but would never ask if he did. But if he succeeded, and found something beautiful, wouldn’t it be beautiful? Wouldn’t it be more beautiful then any boring white red and blue? Yes. The risk, the risk was high. It was no small thing to walk through his white room. But he knew he’d have to try. Last time he tried, he was The boy, he was inexperienced, and he failed. He knew this now. And that’s okay.
But could he risk it? Would he? Would you?
I suppose we’ll just have to see how it all unfolds.
Logging attempt two thousand and twenty two, escape of the great white
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