I think I am in a room.
There is a floor. A solid surface beneath my feet, otherwise I would fall like a dying bird.
There is a ceiling. Reaching up, I extend my arms, stretch my fingers and touch a ceiling. I cannot fly away.
Walls? I reach out into the inky, impenetrable darkness but feel no walls. I need walls. A boundary to make sense of where I am.
I go down on my hands and knees to move across the floor, the only thing of substance, the only reference point I have. I explore the terrain with my fingertips searching for a wall. The surface of the floor is smooth, glasslike, without blemishes. There is no olfactory sensation. No chemical smell or natural scent. When I tap the floor with my wedding ring there is no echo. No reassuring echo. Only the sound of my breathing.
Then I hear a voice. A distant voice.
I move towards the voice and touch a wall. As I stand my hands slide up the surface. It has the same featureless tactile qualities as the floor. I place my feet with care as my hands search for a way out. A door. A window. An exit from this illimitable blackness.
“Now Mr Jackson, to help me reach a diagnosis tell me, describe if you can, what is going on in your head……?”