Spec

What does that dark eye in the ear’s husk see?

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

Concentrated, contemplatively,

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.