/lit/ - Literature

please critique

The walls that he distanced himself from were a pale eggshell color, pockmarked with small craters and finished with a glossy sheen. Occasionally a pale color slipping through the cracks in the blinds would emblazon itself across the cream surface.The light would gaze into him, and would see past the barrier of his skin and deep into the center of his being. The blinds served as his uneasy ally, shielding him from whatever unknowable threat was outside, but occasionally rustling with malicious ambition.
Everything in the vicinity of his expanding and contracting sphere of amorphous consciousness seemed to be looming over. They knew and he didn’t.
The moment shifted. It became unbearable. Every external force seemed not only
conscious, but aware, seeing. They leaned over his fetal form, leering.
He could not afford to give a thought to anything but his situation.The ever collapsing and rebuilding fractal of individualism left him without his breath. Nothing existed outside of him. It was all within, spiraling diagonal light that fell down and through him like a cold knife. Could anything be forgotten? His failings and his triumphs were expanding and contracting like his diaphragm couldn’t. The vice grip of insight clutched his cerebrum.
Outward, he was being pulled outward, to the inevitable finale of matter. His head fragmented and was pulled together from crystalline shards of cosmic dust to form a strained shape again. Matter was nothing but imperceptible microcosms colliding, until his sweat hit the wood floor with such ferocity that it splintered. He held his arms out to break his fall; he realized he was already on the ground.
Sound rang out through the vacuous field. Imperceptible yet unignorable. He became aware it was impossibly shrill. It grew louder, piercing. It dropped down onto him like the voice of an incomprehensible being far above. In a grand, slow shift, like the movement of a leviathan, it became an atonal chant, punctuated by an anguished cry, like a being pushed to its sensory limits.
The floaters in his eyes taught him how to play an instrument that had never existed. It materialized in his hands, made out of a morning fog and strung with rays of light. As soon as he played a chord, it disappeared, sucking the air out of the room.
Abruptly, everything became destructively still. He was getting glances from the surfaces around him. He focused in on the thought that matter did exist, but he couldn’t consider the implications; suddenly all of it wanted to break him. It all wanted to see him squirm and writhe under the scalpel it put to his temple.
He screamed as the floor collapsed under him, revealing the vertiginous depths yawning beneath him.
The end of this experience was inevitable, yet ever returning seemed impossible.
His taut skin fried beneath the cool, bright light above.
He failed to complete his revolution around the sun.
He thought experience was the greatest good.