The Kaleidoscope Is My Mind

White is easy to comprehend; the simplicity of the shade parallels our own simplicity. Nothingness, space, and forever, which are all inevitably intertwined, lack such simplicity. So naturally, we apply “white” to such things as nothingness, space, and forever. Space is stretching into nothingness until forever. That nothingness is white; it stretches into forever. The white has no length, no width, no height, as it is nothing.

What is imagination, then? It can not be measured, nor touched; it is abstract, as time, space, and nothingness are. So it too is white, vast; a void. I imagine, with help from my imaginative mind, that my imagination is a vast plain of white, immeasurable and filled with nothingness. In the assumed center of my imagination, although the “center” is irrelative, as it is immeasurable in the first place, is a box. The box is rather plain and uneventful, as it ought to be. Black and well used in appearance, the box sits, untouched, in this white vast nothingness. The box, created by my imagination to be the symbol for my imagination, is nothing, but we will make it something, as nothing is something when nothing is anything.

So I, having walked into my imagination, will stand before the box, intrigued, interested. I have intruded on my imagination, but how? I am obviously something, and something can’t exist in nothing, unless nothing is something. I am something living in something, and I can create anything; all it requires is imagination [nothing]. So I will walk to that box and I will look at it for an infinite amount of time, as time means nothing when forever is in control.  What happens next is uncertain. Somewhere between time and infinity, I opened the box. You might think that it ended with a bang, that this box was Pandora’s own, but that is not the case.

The box is a kaleidoscope, but instead of using glitter and fancy shapes to allure me, it uses everything. Imagine that, imagine everything. It is almost as hard as fathoming nothing, as everything covers a lot of ground. Abstract and concrete, the kaleidoscope holds it all. So I gaze into the everything, still standing in my nothing, and I am content. I reach into the everything, and I pull out anything I want. Anything my imagination desires.

And this is how my imagination, my vast plain of nothingness, creates stories of woe and happiness, of love and hate, of rivalry and friendship. From nothing, I am anything, I am everything, and I am content.