The Invisible Colloidal Eye

The Invisible Colloidal Eye

- Mike Woronik

It was a chill Winter evening sometime in December.  During these times, it was my great delight to take long walks through the park; I’ve always enjoyed the way that soundless, frigid air inspires thoughts of high value.  This was an immense park, and the sheer grandeur
of its size made it a labyrinth of its own: something to behold and become drawn to.  However, on this particular day, I had wandered to a region that I’d not yet set foot in, and that simple moment changed my life forever.

The snow whirled around me; it was very much like a great dog in the heavens was joyfully tearing apart an oversized pillow, releasing its light-heavy tufts of cotton to the earth below: I grinned at the thought.  It was rather difficult to see, and I had made myself to be in the habit of looking down while trudging through the thick blizzard, but a quick glance forward reveals the most odd of sights.  Right there in the middle of the park was a building so monstrous in its size that I could see neither the ends nor the top of it.  I walked on closer, confused as to why there might be such a strange structure in a park primarily designed to be free of the foliage that concrete jungles too often tend to have.  Understand, this city is very large, and such places of refuge like the haven I take joy in, are utterly necessary.

Upon my more complete analysis of the figure, though, I had realized that it was not in fact a building at all, but rather an incredibly large book!  I scarcely believed my eyes.  I couldn’t tell you how many pages there were; it was lying flat, but even then towered to over five stories in height.  A vain effort was made to pry the pages apart in order to steal a glimpse of what might lie within, but in doing so, a common fact was made known to me: paper is heavy.  The combined weight of these gargantuan leaves was unimaginable.

My curiosity was far from satisfied, and I had set out to survey the area.  After roughly twenty minutes of walking the perimeter of the book, I had vindicated myself in the discovery of a corner; I later discovered this corner to be the bottom right corner of the book.  I turned left and engaged myself in the pursuit of the next corner.  The span of space the length of the book spread was far more than the width I had just followed, and touring it proved to be much more expensive than my previous expedition to the first corner: a price totaling a hefty fifty minutes, to be minimal.  Turning left again, I promptly passed the top right corner and made my way along the top of the book; my hopeful intention was to see the title of the book.

My hopes were realized when I came within view of the title.  I had invested well over an hour and a half in feeding my mind’s insatiable desire for the knowledge of the unknown, and dusk had begun to settle more thickly than the snow.  I paid attention to neither that, nor the fear of frostbite that any sane mind would have at this point.  My passion to discover the meaning of this bizarre scene had driven me, and pushed me; I had an odd fervor that seemed to warm me from within.  This allowed no room in my heart for worry.

Though it had now become dark, I was able to obtain my prize: I could make out the title.  Tilting my head to the left, I read the following words:  “Here Lies The Thoughts You’ve Never Spoken (Single Spaced, 12 Pt. Font) - You”.

My heart stopped for a moment, or so it seemed.  “What in the world?!”, I thought to myself as I again allowed my head to assume its default position.  My curiosity had been piqued in this moment more than the entire journey before.  However, the fire that once drove me through the cold darkness had now dissipated into an awful fear.  I was quivering, and felt weak in the knees.  How many thoughts I had conceived but never brought forth into this world!  This was indeed, a frightful revelation.  I felt regret for not making real the thoughts which deserved such, along with regret for thinking thoughts which ought not to have been thought in the first place.  Fearful, I backed away from the book, and walked on, directing myself back home.  I never saw the sight again.