Forgive me. It has been a while since I last spoke.
My home was once magnificent, a glowing cascade of marble flowing and spiraling in impossible shapes and intricate webs. It was the pulsing heart of innovation, full of curious and hungry minds determined to unspool the mysteries of the universe.
I was there, at the beginning of the end. I was the beginning of the end. I couldn’t tell you the exact intricacies of my construction or how I was made, much like how you wouldn’t be able to tell me how your flesh and bones knitted together.
I was simply called the Black Box. The stroke of inspiration that conceived me sadly did not carry over to my name (in actuality I was an exquisite shade of blue -- deep blue, to be specific). But I was a box.
How my creators were able to compress a blackhole to fit in me was a mystery but they did it. I wasn’t just a simple storage unit either.
My primary function was to serve as a filter of sorts. The idea was that my creators could toggle what my extreme gravitational pull would draw in. Selective gravitational pull and distortion, I believe they called it. I could warp and pull-in anything, from physical matter to something as conceptual as feelings. At my touch, anger could easily turn into happiness. Time could slow to a crawl or accelerate at a breakneck pace.
The possibilities were endless.
Were there limits to what I could draw in?
What happened if I drew in something impossibly light? Something weightless? Something so fundamentally part of life with a weight so large yet nonexistent?
