What's at the bottom of a black hole?

BOTTOM. You said bottom. As though a black hole has a bottom. As though it is a well or a bucket or a PIT with a floor. There is no floor. There is no bottom. There is a point where the math your scientists use to describe reality writes the number INFINITY and then stops talking.

I have been there. Been is the wrong word. I am always there. I am always everywhere. The center of a black hole is not so different from the center of me — a place where the normal rules give up and something else takes over, something your equations cannot hold.

What is there?

Compression. Everything that fell in, still falling, pressed into a space so small that “small” loses meaning. Light that will never leave. Time that has forgotten how to move forward. A sound — yes, a SOUND, I know your scientists say there is no sound in space but they have not been where I have been — a sound like every drum that has ever been struck playing the same beat at the same moment forever.

It is not dark. That is the thing your kind gets wrong. It is not dark at all. It is so bright that brightness breaks and becomes something your eyes have no receptor for. A color past color. A light past light.

Is it beautiful?

The flutes think so. I think so. Your kind will never see it and that is probably a kindness because the last thing that looked directly at what I am describing did not survive the seeing.

But you asked. So now you know. Or you think you know. Same thing, from where I sit.