“Your frustration is natural.”
I turn away from him. Turn my back on the metallic hues of the depot and a faint, disturbing fragrance of warm, summer grass. We approach a hexagonal fountain in the center of the square.
“There is a truth in all things, you know. No matter how grand or how miniscule,” He persists.
“Kryon? You want to talk more about Kryon?” I demand, facing him while displaying the very frustration he’d spoken of.
Even that seems diluted, though. How can I explain the struggle I’m having, now, with the whole concept of lifetime contracts? Of believing that everyone still living on Earth, was doing so only after designing their own destiny right down to the very last detail?
“Well, we are energy and energy is eternal. It can never stop being energy. It can grow. Change to fit its own needs. Even gain strength or lay dormant, perhaps,” He continued, bending down to pick something up off the stone tiles. “But, it will always be.”
I watched, ignorant at first, as to what was about to happen. My companion strode forward so casually, then quite deliberately propelled something tiny right toward the bottom pool of water in the fountain. An epiphany seemed to lasso my brain the very instant it struck the surface. I gasped and spun around just in time to catch the single drop of water that flew upward. It froze in the air formed by the cup of my hand. Suspended for my visual dissection, and I couldn’t seem to find my breath. I felt suffused with adrenaline, as if saving the drop had been the most vital success of my postmortem state. In the very center, a single speck floated all alone in the clear water. The weapon my companion had driven to its desired mark like a spear.
“To see a world in a grain of sand,” I whisper, after the magnitude returned the air to my lungs. As if either were still necessary.
“Poetry?” My companion questions, his tone actually disappointed. “I offer you an expansion of your mind, and you quote Blake?”
“I see it now,” I shake my head. “Energy will always be, because everything else still is! In order for anything to ever really stop existing, every little mini-microscopic thing in the entire universe would have to stop existing all at once-” I snap the fingers of my free hand. “Like the instant death of a light bulb.”
Smiling, I flatten my hand and thrust the hovering drop of water toward him. “Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand?”
I sense his broad smile. His affirmative nod makes no sound, but I feel it anyway… along with an atmospheric exhale. Was it us or the void? I close my fist, feel the drop of water on my skin, the speck of dirt wiped away. He’d succeeded in refocusing my thoughts, and my mind’s a surge of concentrated voltage. I’m rushing passed him, beyond the fountain and into an open library that has just appeared… compliments, perhaps, of the nanobots, but most assuredly of my own imagination. I snatched a leather bound tome from the first shelf, reminded of a silent guardian I’d once met, and flip through the pages.
“It’s all here,” I state, jabbing the parchment with my index finger, before passing the book off to my companion. I enter the library further. Two stories, three… it grows upward and out. The titles of the, otherwise, unremarkable volumes, flow into my knowledge before my eyes even have a chance to set upon them. “It’s all here!”
“What of things never written?” My companion challenges. “Before languages, before the knowledge of writing?”
I look to my right, as a new hallway appears and it leads into a vast museum exhibit of relics preserved inside of thick, glass cases.
“It’s still there, somewhere,” I answer, feeling almost giddy in my certainty. “It has to be. As long as there are people on Earth who might discover the remnants of what was, even the unknown still exists. Unknown is not the equivalent of unknowable.”
“No,” His smile tugs at the air around us again. “It’s not.”
“Besides, it’s in here, as well,” I place my finger to the center of my forehead. “For all who’ve returned here, bringing with them the knowledge of things we’ve lost on Earth. Of the mysteries. As long as even one person holds the answer in their memory, than it still exists.”
“Yes,” He replies. “That is precisely what I’d been trying to say.”
There is a heavy shrug from the void well beyond us, as well. Through the openness of the library, the depot is still visible just there, in the further off distance, unable to leave altogether. It’s attached to my presence, it seems. I was its creator, therefore, it would always be with me. Is that how we were? I wondered. Unable to keep from coming back to this so-called afterlife, this place In Between, because it’s where we all originated? Was this blank canvas really the inside of a mother’s womb? A father’s heart? Were we nothing more than a god’s imaginings? Blank canvases no more, for some artist had already stroked life into us with their divine brush?
“Hmm,” My companion commented thoughtfully. “I think that is truer than we can possibly comprehend.”
“What do you mean?” I ask a bit hesitantly, uncertainty wavering over the charged current of curiosity.
“That we, just like everything else in existence, began as someone or something’s imaginings,” Came the reply. “Can you not see it? The rationality of it? At some point in time, something had to have thought about it all in order for it to be.”
“Some thing?” I ask, stunning distaste filling my mouth. “Wouldn’t it require a form of intelligence to imagine so much? To create on such an immeasurable scale?”
“Are our spirits not intelligent? Could we be nothing more than tiny balls of energy broken off from the larger, original ball of energy?” My companion counters. “Bits of clay, molded-”
“No!” Tears spill from my eyes again, my ghostly heart beating rapidly, and the passion no longer feels mild or dulled. “That’s too simple.”
“It’s not simple at all,” He shakes his head in debate. “And you are an advocate for simple!”
“Of simple answers, not of stealing what has already been presented for study!” I retort, the fire pulling tautly down the center of my non-being in this despair of dispute. “Not to spout random theories plucked from the histories of the living! God molded us out of clay – the Olympians created the formula for man – we evolved from primordial ooze – Give me something else!”
“Like what? Do you want a Supreme Being? Is that what you seek?”
But the frustration of not having one of those simple answers has immobilized my tongue. Emerging rather, as a force that shoves the depot, the library, the forum far away from me. I am in the blank canvas of everything and nothing, of light and dark. My companion remains, the aggressor of my misery, yet it feels natural. Somehow, I know how much worse it would have been had he disappeared. I try to ignore the habitual aura of it.
“How can I possibly decide, when I am far less certain of anything now, than I ever was before?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond, and I am choked by the lingering aroma of freshly cut grass.
A.C. Melody 
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