Part I: The Egg

A: The doc keeps asking me the same question: what does it feel like? And I keep telling him that it’s a damn stupid question.

A: Well, what did it feel like to take a bite of your first ice cream sandwich? Or what’s it feel like to go snowboarding? Or what’s it feel like to sprint as fast as you can towards the person you love? You see what I mean? The question misses the point entirely. They should be asking a different question. Or maybe they shouldn’t be asking anything. Maybe they should just listen. 

A: Inside the egg there’s nothing but fascinating darkness. The silence is total. They always scoff when I tell ‘em this, but in that moment, I swear you’re both everything and nothing. And then I always tell ‘em: imagine hearing yourself swallow for the first time. Just imagine it. Imagine being inside the womb, and waking up in the warm, liquid darkness, and imagine—hear me out—imagine hearing the sound of yourself swallowing and recognizing that you’re hearing for the first time. It’s hard to imagine it, I get it. But no one ever said it’d be easy, and understanding is secondary to the experience.

A: Just try and listen. Inside the egg the silence is all encompassing. You’re floating in space but you’re also the space itself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand what this means. You can still conceive of it. Like a single rain drop falling into the ocean. The silence, just like the darkness, becomes a part of you. In that plane, you become the experience itself. You see what I mean?


A: Listen to yourself swallow again. But this time, really listen. And now close your eyes—close ‘em real tight—and when you open ‘em back up, imagine that the world in front of you were all of a sudden pitch black. You aren’t blind, though. You can see perfectly. It’s just that what you see isn’t just darkness. The darkness is still something, you can still see it. Does that make sense?

A:  Okay. Imagine that you’re in a pitch-black room. You’re lying on the ground and you can’t move. But you can still see, your eyes are open. It just happens to be pitch-black, the room. So do you investigate? What do you see? When your eyes are open in total darkness, are you not still looking at something?

A: That’s what I keep saying. Floating inside the egg you become the egg itself. You just happen to be floating inside a limitless, liminal space. You could close your eyes but it wouldn’t make any difference, because what you’re seeing isn’t darkness anymore. What you’re seeing is something—it might be the beginning of everything—and it’s hearing yourself swallow for the first time; it’s becoming conscious of the fact that you have a consciousness; it’s listening to your own breath and hearing your own inhalations as something new.

A: You’re not floating away—you’re floating towards something, into something. This is what people don’t understand: you’re floating in a space of possibility, and that space is you.

A: Astronauts, for example. Imagine watching one float away. But what if instead of seeing the astronaut float into the darkness, the astronaut were returning to it, from whence she came?

A: This is why nobody wants to listen. They scoffs and say something about it devolving into cliché. But what if it were true? What if we really did all come from stardust? I mean, we did, didn’t we? I don’t know any other way to explain it.

A: Sure. Okay. You can call it ‘going under’ or ‘breaking through’ or losing your mind—you can call it whatever you like, but that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change what I saw. It doesn’t change my conviction. The clarity was complete. In that moment I saw the universe and the universe was me, and isn’t that what we’re all here for? Isn’t that what we’re all here to investigate?

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