Infinity of The Universe

Musei Vaticani.

He enters the doors of the rustic building, revealing hundreds over thousands of people chattering in loud volumes. He cannot help but feel claustrophobic within the crowds of rather under-clothed people as they stand idly in the bright room.

He cannot remember what had occurred for him to arrive upon a bronze sphere ripped apart in the middle to reveal… another sphere just outside. He must not deny the intricacy in its design, yet he could not help but point out how out of place it looks at the heart of the pavement surrounded with stretches of grass, let alone, the rustic building in front of it.

As people pass by him with strange-looking devices on their hands, not to mention, how under-clothed the people are (as he cannot help but emphasize), he wonders if he’s experiencing some sort of prophecy. Surely, this is not what is supposed to happen to him. All he remembers is the soft darkness that he floated on, like he was merged with the galaxy in an eternal slumber. Until a voice reached out to him, asking him if he wanted his deepest wish granted. He did not know if he said yes, but all of a sudden, he was transported here.

He approaches the sphere, wondering if it’s some sort of otherworldly capsule that transported him to this fever dream. It mustn’t be, not with the people smiling in front of it, holding another one of those small devices in their hands (what on earth are those?) showing a vivid reflection of their visage. How baffling.

The reflections shown on their devices certainly have more clarity and symmetry compared to the distortion of his own as he faces the sphere. His hair is a dark tone, whether it is a chestnut brown or a jet black, he is not sure with the sphere’s sepia tone to make a clear verdict.

More confusingly, he is wearing unorthodox clothing. A thin red fabric secures his torso with only the small buttons it has in the front, and reveals his rather lanky arms. Not only that, but the trousers he is wearing reach just below his knees. The soft breeze that touches his skin makes him aware of how bare he is, like a banana stripped of its peel. Yet, no one seems to mind as they do not bat an eye his way, while they wear similar clothing themselves.

He does not know why or how he’s come up with these feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty. Not when there is a void swirling inside him, as if he just emerged out of the darkness that he slumbered in. He does not know the colour of his eyes, lips or hair, only the skin that is pale against the warmth of the sun. Most of all, he does not remember his name.

Now, he is here regardless of the blank canvas in his mind, having stepped in this bright room caused by glowing orbs in the ceiling. That in itself makes him ponder if he is in another reality, or perhaps, another universe. None of this feels familiar to him, despite not recalling what is indeed normal to him.

He follows where everyone is lining up, right below a sign that says Reception. Right next to it is a sign saying Group or Online. Why is everyone lining up here when it says to be on line at the other side?

He finally reaches the front of the line, and a woman behind the booth separating them smiles. 

“Do you have a booking?” She asks.

He blinks. “Pardon?”

She tilts her head. “Booking. Do you want to check the museum?”

He nods, scrambling in his trousers, and notices that there is something inside his pocket. He takes out a leather pouch.

“How much do I owe?” He asks.

“11.99 euros.”

He opens his pouch and dumps everything out, wondering if something so small and light can carry the weight of gold and silver. But only papers of different colours fall out of it onto the booth.

The lady takes some of the papers and slides the rest back to him, also giving him change in the form of one silver coin (that he at least recognizes to be money).

He takes the ticket and follows the person who was ahead of him a while ago. They emerge into the marble hallway, footsteps echoing and overlapping with another as the crowd thickens. Everyone lifts their heads upwards as they walk down the hall, pointing at paintings of people with unique framing on each tile. It looks like a symmetric pattern at first glance, but every person is colored and styled differently, bringing personality and flavour to their faces that are frozen in place. He wonders if they are real people or if they are purely the figment of an artist’s imagination. Not that he remembers.

He furrows his brows as he looks back down. What is there to remember?

There is a sign right outside a room, creating a pull that inevitably leads him to the room. 

Sistine Chapel.

He enters the room, with the sea of painted people merging with the crowd as they blend into the blue wall, as if he just entered a bustling square. Except that the square is encaged, trapping all of the people like a herd as everyone drowns into identical patterns that stretch into infinity, unlike the vibrance of life on the walls.

His eyes do not move away from the wall just across the room. The people around him fade away as he is caught under a spell of The Celestial Court on the wall staring at him from above the clouds of the heavens that they are resting on, imposing a sort of judgment down on him. The people call down to him, whispering a name that he cannot quite catch.

“Your fate after death.” A cold air tickles down his spine and he snaps out of his trance.

His breath hitches as a flash of an empty wall shows in front of his eyes. He is given a memory of a hand, his hand, holding a brush. The beginning.

“Do you want to see?” A faint voice speaks.

The blue wall is covered in its ending once more. He looks at the real people chattering around him, mesmerized by the paintings and art surrounding them. None of them answer the question in his mind.

Who is he? Why is he here?

He looks above, hoping that there is truly someone in the heavens sending him a sign of his purpose in this strange world. He searches the paintings on the walls desperately, each frame leading to a window from another life. But it’s not his own. Something in his heart says so.

But his heart also says it’s close. “You are almost there.” It says.

When his eyes land on the painting at the centre, his universe aligns. Just like the fingertips of Adam almost touching those of God.

“Michelangelo.” The men from above whisper with such volume. He remembers now. His name is written all over.

The room becomes a kaleidoscope as that painting becomes the centre. The centre of the universe. His universe.

“That is the iconic painting of humanity!” A man declares, pointing at the painting from below. There are sounds of agreement and analyses as everyone points at the painting with him, like they want to touch their hands with them to connect their universes together.

The power shakes him to his core, and the tears prickle his eyes.

So this must be what they meant by his fate after death. 

He remembers the years of hard work, sweat and sleepless nights that he took to begin his story. To fill the blank canvas, learning with every stroke of the brush, growing with his art. 

Even in his death, his canvas was unfinished. Perhaps that is why he only remembers being engulfed in the darkness, without change nor growth. He was simply in an eternal stand-still. 

Is this why he’s here? To show that his work has indeed been completed?

No. It must be more than that. Here he is, with these people as they point up at the ceiling in awe.

This is his answer. His work will never be completed, because it will always grow through the stories and minds of the people that come after him. They will discuss his work, dissect the art to discover its true meaning and to understand its imperfection. Just like the hallway that he walked on, the growth is infinite, without a pattern, always breathing with new life and a new perspective.

He steps out of the crowded room, leaving his past behind and takes a breath of fresh air as he emerges back to the hallway, admiring it with a brand new pair of eyes.

This is his new beginning. A new seed of growth has been planted under the fresh soil, waiting to transform into a new age.

So he steps in the room that welcomes this unorthodox reality. The Collection of Modern Religious Art.

Modern art forms take up the walls in smaller frames, shining uniquely on their own. Some are painted in black and white, and some others are painted in abstract shapes without any trace of a human occupying the canvas, as it has been in the majority of his stay here. He certainly finds them to be peculiar, but his mind is provoked nonetheless, eager to peel off its layers and discover its truth.

He is one of the only people in the room, and he wonders why everyone has scattered to the Sistine Chapel. There is more mystery in the present that is waiting to be solved.

So he sits down on a bench, which an elderly man also occupies. The two exchange smiles before tracing their eyes back to the stories on the walls, pondering about how the past has led to the mysteries of the present that is this strange world.