Front line

There’s two worlds: mine, and other people’s.

The first is a sea of fine sand, contained in an elevator shaft. It reaches up to my thighs. There’s a glimmer of sunshine coming in through the surface, not enough to lighten up the place, only to overcast it with penumbra. A vast expansion of emptiness.

There’s nowhere to go, I’ve been here since the beginning of time. I have never tried leaving, never even wondered if it is even possible. Nothingness is all I know, it’s my home.

But one day I woke up and noticed a crack in one of the walls. I ran my fingers over it, lightly. It ran across the whole surface, expanding into a tree branch, a river, a skyline, until it reached the end, miles and miles away, and crumbled.

Light breaks in. There’s a beach on the other side, composed of the same fine sand, and I’m standing where the wall once was, dividing my world from this truer one.

I am free, but I now have nothing. Where do I go? What do I do?

How long will I stand on between these two worlds, before the unknown, on this imaginary front line?