All my neurons, all at once, succeed in disconnecting from one another, and I am only aware of being aware of nothing.
This is not a dream, but a sensory deprivation of the imagination: there is no cogitation happening, like when I was a fetus, just before I became aware of myself, when I first sensed myself sensing.
I cannot miss anything, and that is the real horror; nothing comes to mind about my mind, for such a meta reflex has been stilled, no more, less than a wind; I would scream if I could collect the necessary impulses to connect to that center of my consciousness — but I cannot.
Then, a single pinpoint of light: a light that has no reality, no frequency associated with it, purely of thought, a glimmer that my imagination has not died, but has merely been suspended outside me, out of reach.
I do not know where I am, but I am aware of that: the panic mixes with the relief that I can know such things, once again.
