I am the gamemaster, formless. In a black void, there are five colorful lines, stacked vertically, like a rainbow. Each wide as a highway, flying through space.
The contestants split the lines, trying to get the largest ratio. When someone loses, something terrible will happen. Maybe they will die; maybe they will fall into the void; I’m not sure.
Soon, a group of contestants has gotten well ahead. It will be a matter of time, but it’s clear that some people are going to lose: there’s no coming back from this. My heart aches for them. I scramble the game, confusing the scores. Everything freezes.
Suddenly, I think of sleep. It comes as a vague idea—some kind of rest. But how would one come upon such a state? If you rest during the game, you die. And the game is life. The game is the universe. All there is.
I don’t understand why this concept of sleep came to me, but somehow, I know it’s real. Somehow, I know I’ve experienced it. It was strange, but I truly could not remember how it worked.
Despair engulfs me. Why is the world so brutal? Everyone’s life, an endless struggle. I tear at myself, until I tear a hole in the universe: silvery fabric rushes around me, the void collapsing.
I woke up coughing, tangled in my sheets. I remembered my name again.
Lying there, I felt grateful not to live in that universe. And in that moment, my real-life despair didn’t seem so big.
I wondered how long that feeling would last.