A - The waking Hours - 16

21

Lukas floated.

Disembodied; a being of nothing but sensory input; he floated in his ebon womb. No heat touched him, nor cold. No aroma or tactile sensation assailed his truncated nerves. Time held no sway over this dark demesne. Even thought moved at a mere fraction of its usual pace.

No worry; discomfort; anxiety; happiness; sadness ' nothing.

'Peaceful.' The word, the concept, flowed sluggishly through neurons, leapt spastically across synapses and found a home within his psyche, comforting him.

He was content.

Content. That one small word encompassed all that was Lukas; embodied all that he was; all he had been. Might ever be. He was finite; and yet was infinite.

Somewhere beyond the periphery of that which was Lukas, a speck of illumination bloomed, and grew.

Rapidly, it mushroomed; morphing eagerly into a formless shape that writhed organically. Within its limitless depths, a chaotic kaleidoscope of colors swirled in mindless glee; penetrating that which was Lukas and blinding him.

The essence that was Lukas rushed towards the colors; towards a spiritual birthing that washed away everything in its path, and left nothing behind.