Welcome to Gaia! ::

It was never this hard to remember light. There had never been a time when I could not produce a picture in my mind to accompany a word like sunlight. A children’s book told me about it; “a sun shining in the bright, blue sky over a field of glimmering, green grass.” No matter how many times I read it, I could not remember the sky, grass, or sun.

It was never this hard to remember warmth. I could no longer distinguish warmth from cold, dry from moist. Whether or not both my ability to feel and emotions had died all together, I could not say for sure.

I remember being cold. I don’t feel cold anymore, but I remember it. I especially remember when I first felt cold. I think it was that iciness that took away my human side. An atrocious chill like that is one that is impossible to forget. Even now, in my current state of being void of emotions and feeling, I can almost suffer it again when I think about it. Almost.

I remember these two figures that were taller than me. They were smiling at me. I think they were my parents, but that much I am not able to recall. I can only speculate from what I have read and from the fragments that remain from my past life.

I call it my past life, but I suppose that’s not quite right in literal terms. However, I believe it fits in every way. You see, I have not yet physically died, and if I have, I have no recollection of any other past lives. My childhood is gone. And as it fled from me, it took my emotions, senses, memories, and human body with it. Everything before age thirteen is a dark blur to me—either that, or the memories ceased to exist inside me at all. Or, perhaps, it is I who ceased to exist.

This place is my home. I have come to accept it for what it is; a world void of life, void of light, and void of feeling. I am constantly surrounded in utter darkness. It deprives me of all my humanity; my body, senses, emotions, and memories were eaten away here—not anywhere else and not voluntarily. It was a destructive process; so slowly my humanity faded and so slowly do I now fade. Mine should be a pained existence, but, alack, I feel no pain. I exist without purpose or hope, without resolution or guide, and without friend or foe. I once saw others like me, but they have all faded, as I someday expect I should also. For three years, I have spent my time here. And for three years, I have died.

The silence in this hollow place has never been broken. Yet, I now hear what I believe to be an instrument. I am trying to identify the sound to the name, but I cannot.

I do not remember sound. My own voice is lost to me—do I even have a mouth anymore? How am I to know guitar from flute, piano from drums? I have read many times about people playing these instruments and even instructions on how to play them, but to read is not to perceive sound.

Where am I? I think for a moment, as if awakening from a slumber. I know this building, yet I do not. I have been here many times, but the constant darkness disables the only sense that could perhaps help regain my memories. I cannot see, smell, touch, or taste this building and tell you I have been here. I just have been here—I just know. It may be instinct, it may not.

I hear the notes, I think the term is, peeling off the instrument and flying towards me to vibrate in my ear. I step forward, but then stop. Do I really want to follow this slow feed of notes to its source? Am I curious? Am I ready for disappointment, others like me, or death? Or any combination of the three? Without emotions, I am indecisive with this change in atmosphere. This change has my mind dancing with possibilities—I have never reacted like this to anything before. I have nothing to loose—I’ve already lost all I could. Now, only perhaps my name could be stolen from me, but even that, I could do without. Without my name, maybe I could be mindless. I could finally fade into darkness forever. However, maybe I could somehow gain my last name. Then I would have two names, and I would never be mindless. I would become more than a shadow. Maybe I could be human or, at least, a little more than something non-existent. And when you ask me who I am, I can respond, “I am Lacuna so-and-so and I do exist.” With possibly something to gain, possibly my name to loose, I choose to walk forward.

I put my hand on the side of the wall and glide alongside it, some crusty paint falling to the floor at my touch. The notes echo in a strange way; am I in one of those ghost stories I have read? Each note seems to bounce off the hallway wall and attack my ear. Whether the sound is pleasant or not, I cannot decipher. The notes are slow—both high and low pitched. They blend together in a spiral wave, flowing in a line towards me still. It is…a mystery to me.

I now receive a memory. Is it because of the sound, the music? In any case, I bring to mind the room in which I believe the sound to be coming from. I know what the instrument looks like. I know what it is called. And I have now learned what sound it makes. I have learned how the strings of the piano echo. This knowledge I gain, I do not let go. For, in this world of nothing, knowledge is the only thing that is truly mine.

My name was Lacuna, you may call me a shadow, for I speak to you, but my voice does not reach you; just as your shadow speaks to you, but you cannot hear it. I still call myself Lacuna to try and connect to my past life, to try and recollect any and all my memories. For three years, I have been trying to remember, trying to collect my shattered memories. This is the first time I have ever remembered something not from a book. Simple, I know, but remembering a room and an object is new to me.

Yes, I am Lacuna and I walk down this hallway, unable to see, but drawn toward sound—toward music. Towards the piano player of this hollow world.