This is a translation. I primarily write fiction in Dutch. You can read the original here.

Compartment

If a city’s transport network is a system of veins and arteries, with a heart beating steadily at its centre, then this city is as fit as an athlete. An athlete who has taken more banned substances than are good for him, admittedly. There is something manic about the way its vehicles hurtle endlessly along. Everything pulses and pounds under enormous strain. Endless streams of round capsules swirl and tumble, racing over and past one another. It is a magnificent spectacle. And you are caught up in it.

Inside the capsule, you barely notice all that feverish panting. There is the reassuring hum of well-oiled machinery. There is automatic air conditioning. There are lights that adjust imperceptibly to the weather, the time of day, and so on. Everything operating comfortably within its specified safety limits. There is also a window to keep you entertained, with a sweeping view of the others outside. At this speed, you cannot make out any details. Everything blurs into long streaks and blotches, shooting freely through empty space.

“Rorschach test.”

A voice. A voice speaks inside your head. Calm, friendly, unfamiliar. It isn’t the intercom. It certainly isn’t your own voice. But what does that tell you?

“I mean, it looks just like a Rorschach test.”

The world shrinks. You feel yourself drawing back from the vastness outside. In an instant, the window stops being a passage into infinity and becomes a flat painting. You try to look through it, but your gaze hits the surface. It is as though you have just stepped into the compartment again. The space around you is cramped and slightly musty. The artificial light flickers, sometimes enough for you to notice, sometimes not quite.

What is more, you are alone.

“Do you know what a Rorschach test is? It’s an old psychological test. Fairly primitive by today’s standards. The subject is shown a complex shape. Originally they used inkblots. Something that doesn’t resemble any particular object or depict anything. But the human brain doesn’t work that way. It always tries to recognise something in what it sees. To classify it, identify it. People make sense of unfamiliar things by fitting them into patterns they already know. They can’t help it. The idea behind the test is that, since the picture doesn’t actually depict anything, whatever you see in it must come entirely from you. That it reveals something about your deepest thoughts. Psychiatrists used it as part of their treatment.”

The world grows smaller still. The compartment seems to fade and drift away. Where are you now? Who or what is that voice?

“Please. Pay attention. Just for a moment.”

On the floor are discarded trays of fries, with scraps of onion and traces of sauce. It looks as though a can has tipped over near your foot. The floor looks sticky.

“What do you see when you look outside? Don’t think too hard. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. There are no wrong answers.”

You look at the flat window again. “I see traffic moving fast and landscapes flashing past. At this speed, they turn into blotches and streaks you can’t make out.”

“Like an abstract painting, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you see in that painting?”

“What?”

“When you look at that painting, what do you see?”

You look outside. Your gaze still bounces off the window. You see blotches and streaks.

“I see blotches and streaks.”

“And what do you see in those blotches and streaks?”

“An abstract painting. A Rorschach test.”

“Don’t be silly. What do you really see? What does it make you think of?”

This is harder than it sounds. A blotch is something too. Why shouldn’t a blotch count as an image? It is something concrete. You can touch it, feel it. It has a name: “blotch”. You can depict it in paint or some other material. It meets all the criteria. It is a good answer.

“I said Rorschach test because that’s what came to mind. And it came to mind because you said it looked like one. I’m not sure what else you want from me.”

“Look again.”

You look again, but there is nothing new to see. The vast space you were roaming through has vanished. The window isn’t glass. It’s plastic. You can see the tiny scratches and pits. Glass doesn’t scratch like that.

“I see flatness.”

“Interesting. Very interesting. What do you mean by ‘flatness’? Can you tell me more?”

This is getting tiring.

“Listen, I’ve told you what I see five times now. Landscapes and traffic, blotches and streaks, an abstract painting, a Rorschach test, and now flatness. Before we go any further, could you explain why this is a good answer and the others weren’t? What are you looking for? Who are you, anyway? Why are you bothering me?”

“Now, now. There’s no need to get angry. We’re only here to help. There are no right or wrong answers. I’ve already told you that.”

“Who’s ‘we’? I don’t need help. I never asked for help. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Quite sure?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that hearing voices that aren’t there is generally considered pathological. Or at least undesirable. Not ‘fine’, to use your word. You can hear my voice now, can’t you?”

You look around again. Quickly. Perhaps even furtively. There really is no one else in the compartment. It must be coming from your own brain. From somewhere you don’t normally get to see. Now it is gone. You can feel it. The voice has disappeared and you are alone again. Assuming you weren’t alone when it was there.

Outside, the world races on, tracing the same blotches and streaks over and over. Your mind reaches out, ready to roam freely again through the space it has rediscovered. You want to relax. You hesitate. For a moment, the world seemed to slow down, to become something you could recognise. But as always, the moment you consciously focus on it, it slips away.

With a laboured rattle, the air conditioning kicks in.