The New World
I don’t remember much about my past life. I say past life, but really I mean the one that I lived before - I haven’t died or changed my state of being. He would argue that my state has changed - before my life was plugged in, connected - now I am disconnected. It seems like I’ve been in this room for some time, definitely months, perhaps years. It’s hard to judge time when you don’t have different experiences to hang it on. Yet I mostly feel relaxed, and I feel like that wasn’t the case in my past life.
I am not the only one here, I can hear others nearby. He says once we’ve settled in, we can all get to know one another. I have heard people crying out, and other noises that make me think there’s at least four of us, maybe more.
I’ve been allowed some candles now, so I have some light, but for a long time it was dark. So dark that it felt suffocating. If that’s what the others have experienced too, then I can imagine why some cried out. I don’t know why I didn’t? Perhaps because I have the sense that we’re too far away from any sort of civilization, that no one can hear. That’s why I’m taking it as it comes, seeing what happens.
My room is lit properly for around 45 minutes per day. He says that’s reading time, and I do have a stack of books - older titles such as Sense & Sensibility, The Great Gatsby, Crime & Punishment, The Call of the Wild and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. There’s nothing modern there, nothing from the last 50 years, which I think is telling. At least that’s how I’m reading into it. I’ve become eager for that reading time, and he seems to approve. He often asks me questions afterwards, likes to hear my thoughts on the books. It’s actually wonderful to have someone that wants to hear what I have to say. I feel like I haven’t shared any thoughts for many years.
Perhaps I was the first here, and didn’t scream or call out because there was no one else? The other rooms, if that’s what they are, aren’t attached to mine, and I get a sense that I’m in a stand-alone structure, maybe in the woods somewhere. Sometimes I hear birds, but certainly not every day. It’s strange. I’ve become acutely aware of sounds and trying to discern what they are.
He also brought me an old record player; I had never seen one before. My parents had spoken about them, but they had simply been phased out by my generation. The vinyl records feel delightful to touch, their filmy surface that gives way to firmness. He brings a different record every few days and the music that pours from the amplifier seems to surround me and caress me - orchestral pieces that rise and fall, swelling with emotion then waning into the lightest sound, like a bird tapping gently on a window. This is a new discovery; this music, this aural journey into a realm that I have never known. I know I appreciate it more because of the lack of other noise. Did everyone used to focus on music this way?
I’ve asked for music that I used to listen to, bands and singers from the late ‘20s to the early ‘40s. He went quiet for a while and asked if I didn’t like the records he was bringing. It was inherent that he wouldn’t provide any more documents if I pushed the issue, and I didn’t want to lose this pleasure. I felt like I’d hurt his feelings.
The food is wonderful. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted fruit or vegetables like the ones here. Apples have a distinct crunch and the juice that runs from it has a sharp sweet-sour taste that seems to infuse me with energy. Every few mornings, eggs arrive - either boiled or poached, and they also seem remarkably fresh, although I definitely haven’t heard any chickens running around. I’m not sure whether he brings the food. I hear the hatch open and even when I dash to peek through it has closed as it opens on my side. When I call out, there is no response. Everything seems cooked from scratch, wholesome and inviting. It’s not exotic, but I don’t think I ever had a palate for the unfamiliar.
How did I get here? I only have glimpses of the journey, but I remember drifting in and out of consciousness. I was aware that I’d been removed from my daily life, and yet felt calm about it. I felt like I was in the back of a van; it was dark but not too cold and my hands or feet weren’t bound. It didn’t feel like an abduction, but I suppose that’s the word people would use.
I don’t wonder if I’ll go back anymore, I’m eager to see what this new world holds. That’s where he says we are, “The New World.” Is it possible that he has discovered a portal and brought us with him?
“The Old World is a place where innovation took us too far and destroyed our essence.” He told me three days ago, “You’re beginning to understand that, I see.”
With so much time alone, it’s given me plenty of food for thought. Everyone got ill so fast, and we tried all the quick fixes before it was too late. Turns out technology and innovation only work well when you’re healthy. Last night I asked,
“Did technology make us all sick?”
His response was so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it,
“I’m not sure. Maybe that’s something we’ll discover here.”