From this ledge, the black hole did not feel like an object but like a theory made visible: the proof that nothing you call “I” is exempt from erosion.
The watcher imagined stepping forward and being drawn out into filaments of time - childhood going first, then fears, then ambitions - each memory teased into a pale, translucent strand orbiting the event horizon. The life they had called mine would become a soft halo of used-up moments, circling a center no light could name.
What, then, would remain at that center where nothing returned? Perhaps not oblivion, but a self so scattered it no longer needed to be imprisoned by nouns; a single dense intention without history. Around it, the galaxy screamed in brightness, as if the stars themselves refused such radical simplification, burning louder in protest.
So the watcher attempted a quieter experiment. Without moving, they began to loosen their grip on each thought - on every cherished certainty, every small grievance, every private mythology - letting them drift inward, one by one, toward that invisible hole. They waited to see how much of them could honestly disappear before anything essential was lost, and whether the word “I” would still mean anything once it had been stripped of everything that could be taken.
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