dark night of the soul

Imagine a plain wooden chair and a boy seated in the dark. The air is oppressive but not so much that it belies a vast emptiness. The space has no determinable size, at least in height, and from somewhere above light exposes the boy, then dissipates in the gloom, distorting the spectral walls. They seem to move in the murk. In his mind's eye, he sits upright, though this Brobdingnagian place may not be, and not even the light filtering down seems to have a beginning. He stares vacantly. Beyond the glow every dimension seems a patchwork of gray, as if in an impressionist's painting. He gropes for the walls through this colloidal dark but finds no door. And oddly, the walls seem to be fabricated of books. There are no shelves. Most of them appear to be Bibles, Bibles of all sizes, languages, and translations. Among them are other literary works but most are Bibles. They protrude from stacks and rows in no particular order, and the boy begins to climb them.