Headspace- EXTRACT
He notices the ripples of gooseflesh rush to spread across his arms at the mere mention of it. He stands on the ledge of an Arctic wonderland. It is snowy and filled with the chilliest of winter temperatures. He must venture inside no matter how his body (and mind) protests, and thus he steps inside the Void Room in search of Void himself.
It is suddenly silent.
It is only him. Him, in the midst of it. Only him in the thick of it. Him, in the whitewashed pit. Only him.
What was his name? He must have owned one before he entered. Jasper sounds familiar. Not that he can hear anything in this deprivation tank. A senselesssoundless, scentless air fryer.
White heat blinds his- what colour are they- eyes. The name Jasper slips into unfamiliarity Around him are four whitewashed walls watching with eyes sunken into unforgiving hard plaster The walls have rotten mouths folded into moulds, mould disguised by a little more whitewashing paint. Even the underearth is a wall. Sticky plaster beneath his feet, beyond his cranium.
A sound from the left- where is the left? Wintertide waves, soft, mellow, resounding. Intently, he listens, observes.
There is nothing but the ocean, rainbow wind in his eardrums. He sees white. Hot whitewashes plastered walls, no ocean. From where is it coming? It is all in his imagination, regardless. His own identity is the most profound mystery of all- Jasper is someone else. He cannot be. For all that he is, is this. Whitewashed. Sensory deprivation tank, and the occasional hallucination of someone else's sea.
The sound dissipates. It departs to drown him in silence once more, and he comes back to himself, still standing on the soulless floor He perceives that it has grown a chandelier in its centre, masquerading as a ceiling. He wonders when that had appeared. Surely, he would have noticed it upon entering.
That is another thing that these rooms do, they change, at the will of whoever the room belongs to, though usually they might discuss changes such as these. Void does not apply here. He does not speak, so he has no voice. No thought to share with them.
This reminds him of what he came here for: to search for Void. He resumes his search and remembers how difficult it is to move here. He cannot move rapidly in this room; it is as taxing as wading through deep waters. Imaginary force fields press against his toes to his torso, to his pressure-flood-lit temples. Icicles form inside the pulsing veins in his forearms, drip into view from the corners of his eyelashes. He is so utterly cold that his senses have become numb. All that he can tell is the stiffness of his limbs as they jerk out unconsciously The air is bitter, and it solidifies the hairs inside his nose into fine white rods.
He knows that he cannot die here, but it does not ease the harsh conditions. He knows that he cannot die, but his lungs breathe the boreal atmosphere and convince him that they will collapse under the strain. He is sure that if he stayed any longer in
this room, the universe would defy him and he would succumb to the cold, become hyperborean. Encased in thick white ice eternally
He would call out to Void, but his room is soundless. Even a speaker system hooked up to the Krakatoa Volcanic Eruption would fall deaf in this deprivation chamber.
It sucks everything up, devours it all; black-hole fashion. The Void Room is draining, and he will opt to leave soon. Void is definitely not within his usual motionless cocoon, and this room is empty Its emptiness spreads, and with a light head, he stumbles through the water pressure towards the door