It’s been over a week since the Who am I trauma, so Piglet has had some time to mull over the existential implications of nothingness and being. Bear in mind, a week is a quarter of a lifetime for her, so that’s a lot of mulling.
Piglet decides to face herself, as a external reality separate and distinct from the cosmos.
She thinks: ‘I am…, yes, I… am.’
Of course, her huge ever-growing pulsating brain already knew that, so that’s OK.
Then she thinks: ‘I rule from the centre of the ultraworld.’
This sense of universal power wraps her in a comforting Orb of contentment.
But doubts arise in the hearts of contented men (and babies, probably).
She thinks: ‘Am I alone at the centre? … Perhaps not.’
She thinks: I am not alone. I am not… everything.’
The protective selfishness of her world is pierced, and momentarily she sees all the forces of the cosmos around her, the distances, the other presences, the other presences that persist outside her thinking of them. Briefly, she glimpses all the intersecting planes of all shapes stretching out in all directions. She sees through singularities, stands at the shore of a universe at once complex and simple. She relishes the beauty of everything.
The curtain closes again, and it’s all too much.
