Infinite Tennis

Upon waking, I closed my eyes and imagined myself to still be sleeping. I imagined the avenues leading into the universe. I imagined the steps I had to walk up to get there. I imagined a tiny, vast nothingness, hanging on the edge of time, staring back at itself: a simultaneous future, present and past. I imagined everything crammed into a space the size of a tennis ball: football, climate change, radical feminism, war, religion, bar snacks, the drunk Irish guy who eats a lot of bar snacks, water, those who swim in it; this list continues ad infinitum. In my head, I listed as many things as I could. It took me 24 hours. 24 hours to mentally recite everything in the world I was aware of and could recollect. Suddenly, 24 hours appeared to be the size of a tennis ball, one in which I could fit my entire life experiences, an object so small in the scheme of things that it was barely even there. And that's how I felt. Barely there.

I closed my eyes again, this time to sleep, and worked with preferable dimensions. I tried to imagine everything in the world crammed into a space the size of a tennis court. This activity sent me to sleep and I dreamed of diving from a great height, my entire life below me, staring back at itself. A simultaneous future, present and past. A game of infinite tennis.

Upon waking, I opened my eyes and get out of bed.