I discovered I could move toward any of these openings by willing myself in their direction, drifting upward through the violet space like an astronaut in zero gravity. When I approached the window to my own world, I could see through it clearly enough to make out individual leaves, to observe a squirrel navigating the branches of a maple tree. I pressed against the boundary, but it remained as impermeable as glass, though glass that gave slightly under pressure before gently pushing back.
The same physics applied to every other window I visited.
I could observe, but I could not enter. I was a tourist in a museum of realities, permitted to look but never to touch. The horror of my situation spawned slowly, the way hypothermia creeps through a body. I was no longer lost in familiar woods where rescue remained possible, where the morning sun might reveal a landmark or a trail back to civilization. I was lost in the most fundamental sense imaginable—displaced not just geographically but ontologically, cut off from the basic framework of existence I'd always taken for granted. The forest north of Toronto might as well have been on the other side of the universe, because for all practical purposes, it was. Fear came in waves, each one threatening to dissolve what remained of my rational mind. My chest constricted as if the violet space were somehow depleting oxygen, though I could breathe normally. My hands shook with tremors that seemed to originate not in my muscles but in the quantum uncertainty of my position. I found myself hyperventilating, gulping air that tasted of nothing and everything simultaneously, while my heart hammered against my ribs with the irregular rhythm of pure panic. But beneath the terror, something else stirred—a sense of wonder so profound it bordered on religious experience. I was witnessing something that no human had ever seen, floating in a space that shouldn't exist according to every law of physics I'd learned. The part of my mind that had always been drawn to mysteries, that had led me into those woods in the first place, began to assert itself against the fear. This wasn't just imprisonment; it was revelation. I forced myself to study the windows more systematically, clinging to observation as an anchor against madness.
Through one opening, I glimpsed a world where gravity seemed to flow like water, pooling in valleys and streaming down mountainsides, causing trees to grow horizontally along its currents while bird-like creatures swam through the air above the gravity-streams with undulating motions. The sky there showed not one sun but a constellation of smaller stars that pulsed in synchronized patterns, casting shadows that moved in deliberate rhythms across landscapes of impossible architecture.
Another window revealed a world where massive spires grew from what looked like an ocean of liquid mercury, their surfaces inscribed with symbols that shifted and rearranged themselves as I watched. Floating between the spires, beings with translucent, jellyfish-like bodies pulsed with internal light that changed colour in complex patterns—apparently communicating through these chromatic displays. As they moved, the symbols on the matter responded, glowing in harmonious sequences that suggested some kind of vast, living language being written and rewritten across their entire reality.
A third showed a world in perpetual storm, where lightning moved with the slow deliberation of growing vines, branching and spreading across a sky that shifted between deep purple and electric blue. The landscape below was glass—not broken glass, but smooth, flowing surfaces that reflected and refracted the lightning into fractal patterns of impossible complexity. Creatures that looked like living prisms moved across this surface, their bodies splitting the storm-light into rainbows that painted the glass in constantly shifting spectrums.
As I observed these impossible vistas, my mind began to construct frameworks for understanding. The mathematics came back to me from graduate courses I'd half-forgotten, concepts I'd dismissed as purely theoretical constructs. This had to be what Minkowski had hypothesized but never proven—a spherinder, a four-dimensional object that manifested as a sphere in three-dimensional space but extended infinitely along a temporal axis that curved back on itself. The interior space I occupied existed in the folded dimensions, while each window represented a different point where the spherinder intersected various planes of existence. I was looking at the multiverse itself—not as an abstract concept but as a navigable reality. Every possible configuration of physical laws, every potential evolution of matter and energy, every universe that could exist was represented here by these windows. The spherinder wasn't just a geometric curiosity; it was a nexus, a point where all possible realities converged and became accessible to observation. The magnitude of this discovery overwhelmed every other consideration. I was trapped, yes, but I was trapped at the intersection of infinity. I had become the first human explorer of the ultimate frontier, suspended in a space that connected every possible world that had ever existed or could ever exist. The terror remained, but it was now balanced by an awe so complete it made my chest ache with something beyond emotion—the recognition that I was witnessing the fundamental architecture of existence itself.
That brings me back to my present predicament, floating here in the violet depths while countless realities wheel around me like stars in an observatory of universes. I have tried every conceivable method of escape—pressing against each window until my hands ache, willing myself toward the boundaries of this space, even attempting to retrace the path of my original fall. Nothing works. The physics that govern this place operate by rules I don't yet understand, and perhaps never will. But as the hours pass—though time itself seems negotiable here—I find myself questioning whether escape is truly what I want. The fear that initially consumed me has begun its slow transformation into something else entirely. Wonder has a way of displacing terror when given enough space to grow, and I have nothing but space here. The panic attacks come less frequently now, replaced by periods of profound contemplation as I drift between windows, observing the infinite variations of what existence can become. Part of me knows I should be desperate to return to my ordinary life, to the hiking trail and the world I understand. But that world suddenly seems so small, so limited in its possibilities. How do you go back to worrying about getting lost in a forest when you've seen forests where the trees grow downward into sky, where the leaves sing in harmonies that reshape the wind? How do you return to a single reality when you've glimpsed the vast democracy of all possible realities? I have made a decision, then. Instead of exhausting myself in futile escape attempts, I will become a student of this place. I will observe and catalogue and try to understand the mechanics of infinite possibility. I will map the multiverse from the inside, document the variations in physical law, perhaps even discern the patterns that govern which realities can exist and which cannot.
There are worse fates than being the universe's first and only explorer of everywhere that ever was or could be, suspended forever at the centre of all things in the heart of the spherinder.
