Chapter Three
The Same River Twice
The Bliss
Another moonturn begins its passage through the ever-dark sky, just as so many that have preceded it.
I wake in the small cottage, taking in the pale yellow walls and white trim, along with the window draped with lace curtains that never seem to gather dust. The temperature maintains a harmonious balance, requiring neither a blanket nor a breeze.
Everything here exists in a state of relaxed harmony that I find most agreeable.
I cannot recall exactly when I fell asleep, though I must have at some point.
Sleep arrives easily in The Bliss, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day.
There are no dreams, or if dreams do come, they dissolve the moment consciousness returns, leaving only a faint impression of something gentle in their wake.
I rise and step into the selected clothes laid out for me—a simple dress in soft blue and comfortable shoes. It’s odd; I don’t remember selecting these garments, yet they are exactly what I would have selected, given the choice.
Beyond the window, the moon hangs suspended in the sky, a crescent shape this time.
I can’t tell whether it’s waxing or waning.
I cannot say. The consistent routine here makes me feel as though time stands still.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that while I am aware of time passing, it lacks any distinct shape or definition.
It expands and contracts in a rhythmic pattern of meals, exercise, teaching, activities, rest, and reset.
In a world without the sun, where only the ever-shifting phases of the moon indicate any semblance of temporal progression, everything begins to feel both dark and cyclical.
Though not in a nefarious way. Nothing here manifests unpleasantly.
I step beyond my cottage door and regard the street before me. A row of identical homes stretches in both directions, each one painted in soft pastel hues. Each house has the same white picket fence, a carefully tended garden, and lace curtains gracing the windows symmetrically.
A woman passes by my gate, walking a small white dog of indeterminate breed. She raises her hand in greeting, her countenance bright and cheerful in the manner of all souls who reside within these walls.
“Beautiful tidings!” she calls, her voice carrying that particular quality of brightness that seems to permeate every interaction here.
“Beautiful tidings!” I return her salutation with a wave of my own hand.
She walks this particular path every day—or at least, I believe she does.
I think her name might be Eleanor, though it could just as easily be Emma or Elizabeth.
The specifics elude me with surprising regularity, yet this omission does not seem to diminish the general sense of well-being her presence provides. She smiles unwaveringly.
I make my way down the cobblestone path that winds through The Bliss. The stones are smooth beneath my feet, evenly placed and expertly sanded to ensure there’s no chance for a single misstep.
As I walk along my path, I encounter other souls.
A gentleman in a cardigan whistles a cheerful tune that sounds familiar, though I could not reproduce the melody if asked.
Two children skip past, holding hands, their movements synchronized in a way that suggests they have performed this same action countless times before.
An elderly couple walks arm in arm at a pace so measured and consistent that one might set a timepiece by their progression.
Everyone smiles and offers greetings.
“Beautiful tidings!”
“Lovely moonturn!”
“How wonderful to see you!”
I respond to each greeting in kind, feeling the gentle warmth that comes from being surrounded by pleasant people in a pleasant place, engaging in pleasant activities. There is a comfort in the predictability, a safety in the sameness.
I continue along my path to Infinity Lake, the peculiar body of water I visit after my first meal each day.
As I round a gentle curve in the cobblestone path, the lake reveals itself.
It stretches out in every conceivable direction until water and sky seem to merge into an endless expanse of silver blue.
The surface is still, absent even the tiniest ripple or wave, reflecting the moon, the pastel cottages, and the amber-touched trees with the precision of the finest-looking glass I have ever set my eyes upon.
The water seems to stretch endlessly, regardless of the vantage point one chooses. However, as soon as one walks closer to the edge, it becomes clearly defined. Then the opposite side presents the same illusion, suggesting infinite continuation despite the existence of boundaries.
I recognize this as an optical illusion, naturally.
The lake possesses limits, as all things must. Yet, from any given angle, it appears limitless, and I find this particularly comforting.
The idea that something can seem eternal while still having definite parameters resonates with a deeper truth I cannot fully express, but can feel nonetheless.
After spending an indeterminate amount of time contemplating the lake’s deceptive vastness, I make my way further along the cobblestone path until I locate one of the benches positioned at regular intervals throughout the landscape.
The benches maintain meticulous uniformity.
Each consists of well-maintained iron rows, spaced evenly from one another, suggesting careful planning rather than organic placement.
I choose the bench I always select and take my seat, and immediately, birds of remarkable variety descend upon the space in a flutter of wings and cheerful song.
Robins, bluebirds, and finches arrive, their plumage bright and immaculate, their songs sweet and melodious, as if composed for maximum harmony.
They perch on the bench beside me, upon my shoulders, and on my outstretched hands with a confidence that reflects their complete absence of fear or wariness.
Shortly after, an assortment of food appears without fanfare or explanation.
Breadcrumbs rest in a woven basket of exquisite craftsmanship.
Nuts fill a porcelain dish, adorned with delicate flowers.
Seeds are scattered across a linen cloth of the softest weave.
These items seem to magically manifest, as things tend to do within The Bliss.
“Hello, my friends,” I murmur, allowing a finch to hop from my finger to my wrist in a movement of surprising trust. “How lovely to see you again.”
The birds respond with chirps and trills that I interpret as conversation, though I cannot quite tell the topic being discussed. Nevertheless, the exchange feels meaningful in some fundamental way. It feels correct, proper, and good.
Following this activity, I bid farewell to the sweet creatures before effortlessly continuing on my way. I make my way toward the River of Remembrance, located near the center of The Bliss.
High walls of smooth white stone rise to impressive heights, stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction. I have never possessed the inclination to wonder what might exist beyond those barriers. The Bliss provides everything one requires and encompasses all that is necessary.
Iron gates punctuate the perimeter at intentional intervals, their scrollwork elaborate and beautiful, painted white to complement the walls they interrupt.
These gates remain closed at all times—or so I would imagine.
I cannot remember seeing them open, but like most memories, it floats around me like the sensation I’ve done this before more than a vivid recollection.
I don’t seem to have retained any memory of my own arrival at this place. Surely, such an event occurred at some point in what passes for history here, yet the details remain cloudy, not even a feeling of life before The Bliss. This does not bother me at all, however.
A portion of my daily routine involves wading through the River of Remembrance, and it is toward this destination that I now direct my steps.
The river flows through the very heart of The Bliss, wide and shallow and possessed of such crystalline clarity that one might count the smooth stones lining its bed.
The water barely reaches my knees when I step into its flow, yet remarkably, my shoes and hem remain dry despite my clear perception of the coolness against my skin.
This paradox, like so many others here, requires no explanation or provokes any concern.
When my feet touch the cool water, my consciousness drifts toward vague visions of my past life.
I spend considerable time revisiting moments of quiet joy, though the particulars remain perpetually obscured by a sort of pleasant fog that softens all edges and blurs all distinctions.
There exists a garden in these memories. Roses grow there, I believe, or perhaps peonies. Someone laughs within this vision, producing a bright, musical sound that warms my chest with an emotion I cannot name but recognize as fundamentally good.
Sunlight is featured prominently in these recollections. Genuine sunlight—not the perpetual lunar glow that illuminates The Bliss, but rather the golden warmth that once graced my face in that time before this one.
Hands appear as well. Someone’s hands joined with mine. I perceive calluses upon these phantom hands, yet the grip proves gentle rather than rough, tender rather than demanding.
The entire experience feels like existing within a deep dream, where faces blur beyond recognition and shapes possess only the fuzziest of edges.
Nothing appears in sharp relief. All remains fuzzy and faded, viewed through deliberately obscured thick glass.
Voices reach my awareness as lyrical mumbling rather than intelligible speech, yet the emotions these memories evoke surface with surprising intensity and clarity.