Good Evening.

I am sitting in a box.

It is 11:43pm. There are some fish bobbing about up near the ceiling. They are discussing Lev Vygotsky's Theory of Cognitive Development. They have been discussing for several years now, discussing and discussing and discussing, over and over again, they never shut up, not for one moment, just endless discussion, the same discussion again and again and again.

One day, they will be gone. One day, there will be silence, just a ceiling, no fish, no discussion, not even a whisper.

Where the fish will have gone, I cannot bring myself to say. I do not even particularly want to think about it, but I tell myself I must. Because only by thinking about where the fish will have gone will it exist for them to go there. Just like if I choose not to think about the fish, they will not be there, bobbing about up near the ceiling, but I cannot take that risk. I am the only hope they've got. Without me, they will be trapped in the darkness of non-existence, and while I do so wish they would use their time more efficiently than discussing Lev Vygotsky's Theory of Cognitive Development over and over again, I do not have the heart to send them back.

Fish. What do they know? What do they know about sacrifice? What do they know about the reason they are up there, happily discussing, discussing and discussing. What do they know about me?

Not even a thank you. Not even a nod of gratification, not even a hint of acknowledgement. Just endless discussion, over and over and over, again and again and again, until the end of time.

And, as I gradually climb out of delirium, I find myself in my box, writing and writing, over and over and over, just constant writing, endless, again and again and again. I am ignorant to what has been done for me to remain here, ignorant to the reason I sit here, day after day, writing.

One day, I will be gone. One day, there will be nothing here, just an empty box, no presence, not even a whisper. The fish cannot bring themselves to say where I will have gone, they do not want to think about it, but they must. Just like they must think about me, and if they didn't, I would not be here, sitting in my box. They cannot take that risk. Without them, I would not exist, and while they do so wish I would use my time more efficiently than by writing over and over again, they do not have the heart to send me back into the dark.

And I sit here, unaware, day after day. I never look up and say thank you, fish, for letting me be. I never give a nod of gratification, nor show even a hint of acknowledgement. All I do is write and write and write, over and over again, I never stop, not for one moment, just endless writing, the same writing over and over again, until the end of time.

For a few final moments, I feel as though I ought to look up at the ceiling. I have a strange sense that there is something up there. I begin to turn my head, but the moment is over, I am distracted, and I turn away. The thought to look up to see if there was anything there never occurs to me again.

And yet, each passing day, I dedicate a few thoughts to wondering why I am here.