The lie that fills the void

Suppose there were really nothing but a yawning void, and yet I in all my foolishness had myself convinced of the contrary. And this contrary is not merely that there is something but that there is an extravagant something, which is all the danger. I wish to discover the truth of course, to see past the shimmers of illusion, but I have been a prisoner to this lie for far too long; insofar that it has become my only comfortable reality. And were I to somehow escape it, by the chance tug of revelation or the honest push of chastisement, I would surely suffocate in the world beyond. The lie has become the atmosphere to which my body is accustomed, and the air it holds is all that I can breathe. As it is, I shall have to remain and I shall have to forge ahead on this isolated plane, alone and in the trust that it will lead eventually to that bright end where all things rightfully should, and there rejoin the one true reality.

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