The Empty

Empty.
A place between the nothing and existence itself.
A realm of actuality that isn't sustainable to be real.
A vicinity far from proximity, yet still nigh.
Caught in between times and places.
Who's to say what's real, what's fake?
When time is a memory and location a façade.
Blank.
Unfulfilled symphonies linger in an endless void.
A mere mix of cacophony.
Mimics of human architecture.
Mimics of the colorless of the Backrooms.
Stripped of their purpose, taken apart piece by piece.
Until context no longer matters.
Barren.
Faint memoirs fading in and out.
A steady yet shaky heartbeat—perhaps threatening to flatline any second.
A place familiar but unhuman.
A place that provides deceased life for the nobody.
House after house, yet none can be considered home.
Let alone something resembling humanness.
Desolate.
The halls of these amalgams ring emptily.
Left without a heartbeat, left without an identity.
My own hollow breath being inaudible.
My eyes scarcely looking abroad.
The floor offering no resistance against my shoes.
It is as if I am flying.
Decaying.
None of this felt real.
It was as if I were powerlessly lucid dreaming.
Perhaps I am. Perhaps I'm not.
There was no way to conclusively tell.
I fall through the disregard of reality.
With corridors descending and timidity ascending.
Corroding.
Each seeming millennia, a note appears.
Quickly nailed to the wall in a hurry.
But it extinguished as fast as it came.
As the paper is almost entirely blank.
Singular lines of ink lubricating.
Yet it doesn't form any words or sentences.
A belief to break the monotony shattered.
Vacant.
The wall returns back to blank.
The note vanishing seemingly in mid-air.
As if never real, never intended to be read or written.
Simple, unfortunate strokes on a blank slate.
A small, insignificant piece in a bigger picture.
Meaning to mean something—despite lacking the energy to do so.
Null.
Some places feel as if they're stuck in a sort of limbo.
They intend to exist while not existing.
They exist while not intending to exist.
While others are replaced by the new.
Some are erased from their very place of existence.
But can exceptions be made?
Long-forgotten omissions to an ancient rule?
Hollow.
The halls contain a balance of nothingness and fullness.
A sense of claustrophobia in the empty.
Maybe there is more than meets the eye at first.
Maybe there's less.
Is it possible that there might be more hiding out there?
Or are we really confined to this infinite space we know?
Forsaken.
Clocks are nearing their very end.
Yet remain frozen in time for eternity.
I feel my blood slowly running cold and dry.
Bereft of life, will, or joy.
Despite this, that faint ticking still emerges.
Like a time bomb ready to enkindle me any second.
But not on my own accord, nor through the laws of this world.
Depleted.
Withered flowers fall apart, blossom by blossom.
A quiet reminiscence of requiem hangs above the factitious ceiling.
Embrittled into the ground below, through cruel woodwork.
Encased in false freedom—no, not even. Less.
The return of false prophets to the nothingness.
Only to embrace the eternity.
Falling.
Each step feels like slowly descending into the unknown.
As if clumsily losing ground below.
While each wall feels gas-like, unsolid, and unreal.
Whilst reality slowly crumbles like a chandelier.
The burning essence finally fading.
But somehow, staying aflame.
Fading.
Trapped between two extremes. Devoid of color.
Devoid of life. Long past its zenith.
Hidden away behind darkness and light.
Equally as full as empty.
A place that exists yet which cannot exist at the same time.
A jump from total annihilation to the forgotten.
Eradicated.
Neverending consolidations, all on a single plane of existence.
In its own consistence yet nonexistence, remaining in persistence.
Yet trapped in a realm of unfulfilled reminiscence.
While the inconsistence spreads, so does not the subsistence.
Whilst growing and growing in instance.
Approaching riddance.
Void.
Perhaps it could have been something at some point in time.
It seems unlikely, and the chances are slim, but everything must have a purpose, right?
A graveyard to some extent.
The existing and non-existing collide with one another.
Shaping each other in an unreasonable mess.
As if the sleep of reason produces monsters.
Vigilant.
Slipped through the metal hands of time.
Remains of uncharted size and impact.
There is no "there is", there is only "there might be".
As much as areas of this reality are monotone.
So are they unpredictable.
Only questions remain, no answers.
So what is this place?
From the hundreds, thousands, even millions of conglomerations possibly situated—concentrated at one, single spot.
There is no real answer—but theories.
After all, it's hard to tell what is and what isn't when the only known is that there are unknown unknowns.
you sense a presence
somewhere in this room.
proceed?
>yes          > no
While the scopophobia draws close,
the eyes don't seem to disappear
until the emptiness returns to blank.
> Open Author and Licensing Details < < Close Author and Licensing Details >
Author: 20Tom07
Original Author is this guy.
For the Freewritingcon hosted by Stormy.
Image is drawn by deleted user @_ghostgods on Tumblr back in 2019.
Category:Anomalous Levels
Category:Locations
Category:Nothingness and Non-Existence
zh:The Empty