The universe collapsed. Or perhaps it was destroyed. Reality faded into nothingness and the nothingness boiled away. What was, ceased to be, as time unravelled itself like a threadbare coat, caught on a nail. Darkness swallowed light, as illumination grew ever brighter, blinding the gods and ripping through the outer planes, until the ultimate end of all things was brought into being. Desolation. Emptiness. The infinite void. All of existence crushed into a singular point that itself was simply wiped away. Or did it blink out? Who can say? No one was left to observe the absence of anything that ever was, it simply was, no more.
That’s what lies behind this door.
We can take a look if you like. Open the door. Step on through. It’s a simple matter really, the door is not locked.
Air supply? No need, there’s no death left there to claim you. Just as there’s no floor to stand upon, nowhere to fall to, and no gravity to pull you any which way. You’d only have what you take with you I’m afraid.
Oh yes, quite right, nature does abhor a vacuum. Though, I dare say, the vacuum that once existed in the world beyond this door, consumed its nature long ago, before being swept away into nothingness itself.
Step on through, I assure you, there’s nothing to fear, and no need to fear nothing. She’s long gone from there. Think of it like a seashell washed ashore, an empty house if you will, devoid of life, lacking any furniture, bereft of purpose or meaning.
That’s it, have a look. I’ll leave the door open if it makes you feel comfortable.
What’s that? Well no, it’s not like floating.
That’s right, there’s no space. I did mention.
Oh yes, people often think it will be peaceful, but as you can see, there’s nothing to compare it to in there, other than your own self.
Hmm? Oh you’re on your own time, it’s the time you brought with you. Same as the air in your lungs, the hair on your head, the thoughts in your mind. In some sense, you’re more where you are in there, than where you are not, out here.
Sure. Come on back.
Creepy? I suppose it depends on what expectations you had to begin with.
The door? Well the door itself is mostly oak, but the frame is pine wood.
Well, it’s a door.
Ah I see. No they’re made purely for cosmetic reasons. Used to be quite popular additions to the decor of an abode, decorations for those that could afford them, during the height of transitive architecture. Less fashionable nowadays.
Why yes there’s quite a few. Loads really. Of course they don’t all lead to realities ended, like this one. Bit of a niche market. Too depressing for most folk. Fell out of favour compared to other, fancier doors.
Oh you know, places thriving, growing. A few seed worlds. Nascent realities. That sort of thing.
Where we are now? Well I assume it will. Some day. Everything ends. Who knows, maybe one day there’ll be a door to the nothing that’s left of our world.
Does it really matter? Layers upon layers. Sub-worlds. Super-worlds. Meta-verses. I mean it’s all always ending, beginning, at an end, never begun. A cycle, a paradox, a painting. There’s more to this than time and space you know.
I have a door upstairs that leads to the perfect example.
Care to take a look?
About Thomas Brown
Why is it, I can practise my writing with relative ease, yet when it comes to writing about myself, I stall?
I pose the question, what would people care to know about me? Why would they want to know? Should they even be permitted to know? I don’t know.
Or maybe I do know. Maybe I’m right. This bio doesn’t matter. Or it ought not matter. Where I’m from. What I like or don’t like. Why I wrote something. None of this is important. Not to anyone other than me.
So maybe this bio isn’t for you, the reader. Maybe it’s just for me. To help me re-affirm who I am. To let me review why I write things.
It’s probably just a bio, thrown in by someone who thought it would be a good idea to leave a space for people to write about themselves.
Well… this is what you get I guess. This nonsense.