I walk along the narrow aisle, crystals sparkling on all sides of me. Each step I take is measured, precise; I pull in my shoulders, careful not to interrupt the neat rows around me. I walk slowly to an intersection and pause. The sheer scale of the crystalline library sinks in. I look at a shelf, watching the thousands of clear marbles. Not a sound, but a small flame in every one. Each one contains a fire, burning more or less brilliantly. Some of the fires seem to consume their marble from the inside while others flicker feebly. Some have only blackened candle wicks and sit on their shelves, silently dead. All those with fires seem to emit silent chants of “I am alive, I am alive”, that those marbles who are truly silent are jarring to my expectant ear. I look to my left at yet more rows of chanting orange and yellow flames. Among them is a marble who’s clear sheen reveals a small blue fire. It isn’t quite flickering, but it does not reflect the same energy and exuberance as the orange clear marbles. It doesn’t chant. It isn’t silent. Instead, it emits a slow, sorrowful tune. It sings like it is alone in the night, singing for no ear. I watch it a while as it sits on it’s place on a tray placed on a row on a tower of these marbles. This one, this small one with a light blue flame, I want to hold. I reach for it, across hundreds of other marbles, momentarily forgoing the fear of crushing all of these flames. As my fingers near their goal and my sense of curiosity heightens, I suddenly remember the risk, the pointlessness and moreover, that the sorrowful tune is nothing more than silence. The marble does not sing. I pull back my arm and watch as my fingers back by my sides again, idle, waiting. I look down at the floor I am standing on and see down for miles. The glass separating me from millions of other marble towers has no supports in view. It just reveals what is beneath me. Me. I consider me for a second, my curious fingers, my teardrops beginning to litter the glass floor, my New Balance sneakers for running. Running? Among these aisles? I slowly sit down, cross-legged, looking up now at the immensity of billions of small flames above me. The rash idea to pick up the marble with the blue flame now seems ludicrous to me. Why should I pick up a marble who’s only request is the ability to flicker and undulate naturally. As I sit there, I wish silently. For that marble’s eternal movement and for it never to burn out. I laugh out loud a little. Eternity. The dream of everyone, every marble on these millions of shelves, every wishing soul.
As I look back down again, I see words under me. Among towers and towers of marbles are little strips of text glowing yellow. I can’t see all of them very clearly but a couple drift close enough to catch a glimpse. January. October, May. At random, months float past my eyes. A little hopeful, I latch onto this idea, looking for August. An idea comes to me that among these billions of flaming marbles is my own. As August drifts by, I latch onto the idea and press my hand to the damp glass. Marbles and I drift into the air, the towers static as the glass opens. I find myself breathless on the other side of the glass, my hand still pressed, all the marbles on this side intact. Through the glass, I see some marbles on the other side still drifting in search of their towers. I push back from the glass and float downwards, headfirst. Towards August. Towards August. In this place, on this side, among these spheres, I almost forget my original intention. I push through the air, towards the word I saw previously. August floats past me and I reach out to grab it. My hand meets soft cloth and the word disappears. I let go for a moment, surprised. And then it reappears, a little further, lingering around a tower I had not seen previously. I rush towards the tower. Scanning numbers now, 1 through 31. I arrive at my number and pause momentarily. A little nervousness still lingering, a feeling that I shouldn’t look. I shake off the feeling and pull out the shelf with my number. I see tiny words next to each marble and look for my name. I look. And look. And look. At the back of the third row is one that looks familiar. I’ve never seen it before, but a strong feeling of déjà-vu comes over me.
Instead of reaching, I stare at it, unsure whether or not it is my own. The light inside is reddish orange, flickering, struggling to truly explode within. I quickly reach for it, overcome with anger. Checking the name, checking it, double-checking it, then I fling it to the ground. The dull sound it emits is sickening. I reach to pick it up, slightly dizzy and fall to the ground. The marble has a small scratch but hasn’t shattered. I pick it up and place it on my palm. I stare at it, until it starts to rain on me. I look up, only to find my tears from earlier, from the other side, have someone started to drip onto me and the marble. I sigh and let the tears from this reality, the one I’m in, fall onto the marble. It glows for a second then dulls again and the flame inside is still struggling to flower.
From the floor, I see the billions of marbles around me and realize that every one, once shattered, spreads like a wildfire. It dulls thousands of marble, torches shelves and covers the floor. I hold my marble a little more tightly, frustrated and regretful, and place it back on the shelf. As I get up and start to walk away, I glance at it and watch it flicker for a little while, the scratch scarring it but not shattering it.
I walk away slowly, a weight lifted from my shoulders, a little exhausted and reach my hand up towards the glass ceiling. As I slowly float towards it, towards the marbles and towers on this side, I look back once more. It looks almost like a city, like New York City from an airplane. My hand reaches the ceiling, shoots me to the other side, past the second layer of light cities, towards streets and cars and honks and masks. The sidewalk is grimy, trodden with millions of footsteps, the sky is gray and bright. The air is humid and sticks to my skin. Yet I would never trade it for the glittering undercity, for the truth about each of us. I look at the passerby and wish each of them, each of their marbles and their flames and their souls good luck.
To you, too.
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