Indigo woke with nothing to do
And perfectly happy about it.
We never get tired, thought Indigo,
Of feeling good and feeling content.
Why is that? Then Indigo pondered.
Indigo was the creative type,
Fond of speculation, fantasy,
Sheer imagination. Indigo
Closing owlish, feline eyes. Let’s see.
What if we turned the world inside out?
Imagine an unhappy cosmos,
But not entirely unhappy.
In a world entirely unhappy
Would anybody really suffer?
How could they know what they were missing?
No, what if this world held a balance
Alternating joy and misery?
No, not quite, not exactly. A soul
Could get used to that, as well, always
Content to anticipate future
Happiness, capable of belief
That when one happiness disappeared,
Another would return, orderly,
In the natural orbit of things.
Then Indigo shivered with a thought—
What if in this alternate cosmos
Everything good derived from the bad,
And not only that, but bad as well
Derived from any good? How awful.
Imagine a world in which no one
Could savor even perfection long
Before it curdled into boredom,
Where every good thing grew tedious,
Even dangerous to possess long.
This thought was dreadful and delicious,
Just right for speculative fiction.
Indigo could almost see it now.
Reaching out for writing implements,
Indigo smiled, eyes opening wide
On a vast and featureless story
To fill with detail. Let there be light.
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