Hell isn’t what they say it is.
Nothing compares to the despair of being dragged down the tunnel, the light of the waking world reducing, reducing, reducing to a pin prick and then winking out. That’s when you know isolation.
You know that everything and everyone you’ve ever known is an unfathomable distance away. There will be no comfort for the horrors that await.
But no horrors come.
Instead, there comes a clock.
You don’t truly see it, not with eyes. It’s a mental image of an antiquated brass clock, with three hands pointed at midnight that never move. It is your only view.
You spend what seems like decades lamenting, the decisions you’ve made, the decisions you didn’t make, the loved ones you’ve left, the fate you’ve been cursed with.
You despise the clock, still at perpetual midnight.
The lamentations turn to madness. Thoughts blur in a muddy stream of conscious. You’d laugh if you had a mouth. You’d cry if you had eyes. The clock bears witness to your fevered confessions.
You love the clock. It is your world. It is your God.
Madness is a circle, and after time incomprehensible you break through the other side. Surely the last person to speak your name is eons dead. The world is dust. The sun has been extinguished.
The clock is the only thing that is real. It is implacable.
The circle of consciousness has been broken. The clock is forgotten. You have transcended. You exist neither consciously or unconsciously. Ego is gone.
You are everything and nothing simultaneously, a single atom and an entire universe. An ant and a God.
And then at once in a rhapsodic tumult of sensory overload, the clock returns and you remember everything.
One of three hands has moved ever so slightly to the right.