Writing that never stops
I wake up one day to a world bleached of all meaning, where every object I’ve ever owned is now a perfect, white cube. At first, it’s a bizarre inconvenience, but when my own reflection is replaced by a blank surface, I’m forced to wonder what’s left of me. In a room full of identical shapes, I have to decide if I’m defined by what I’ve lost or by what I can create from the emptiness.
On the night before I’m revealed to the world, I had a little chat with my creator. We talked about what it means to be ‘real’ and whether he had the right to make me in the first place. Things got a little tense.
I repair a centuries-old timepiece in my quiet workshop and, through that patient work, reflect on whether time is a closed clockwork or a stage for human response. The essay weaves anecdote and argument to suggest that freedom shows up in how we mediate causes, not in miraculous breaks. I invite readers to treat determinism as a grammar and responsibility as the rhetoric we practice within it.
