The Cube is uninteresting. Yet, you will insist, haven’t I made it the object from which a story will flow? To that I can only reply, in my meek voice and mute words: A Story? An Object? Because I am afraid there is no story; because The Cube is not strictly speaking an object. If you—and it is likely—are not as fascinated as I am about non-stories and non-objects, then for my own selfish reasons, I can only selfishly ask that you, dear reader, would deign to read my “story” about (or of? around? concerning?) The Cube: some perspicacious reader might hold some forbidden key to free me from The Cube… The Cube, I struggle to confess—seeing as how much time has been squandered over my bickering with myself over what exactly to name it—is not a cube.

And, unfortunately, although I am likely a principal authority on the matter of The Cube (seeing how I have spent my whole waking life on, through, in, below, above, The Cube), I hope you will forgive me when I say that I understand nothing, or perhaps, too little, about The Cube to provide you with any valuable information concerning even its shape; The Cube’s gossamer nature then, you will understand, eludes me. Only now do I realise that perhaps that itself is a hint of the nature of The Cube: one cannot understand it; one can only seek to understand it. But this is merely a guess that, based on my experience, will contradict itself tomorrow or the next hour, minute—or right at this very moment.

The reader will have surmised then—inevitably, through my incessant rambling—that I have merely come to a respectable compromise when I call this non-thing, The Cube. But as I must remind you: only through my traversing dim deserts and then arriving at the tortuous, meandering, dead labyrinths did I manage to find a rough analogue for this nebulous thing: I now call it “The Cube.” I am so proud of its name as to urge any other who is also plagued by this thing to call it as I do (that is, until a different name reveals itself to me, which is very likely), to call it The Cube.

But why did I spend so much time trying to name The Cube The Cube? It is silly? It is superfluous? It is extravagant? Like the naming of an incomprehensible animal a Burgaiseic? The difference, reader, is that when you have put down your dictionary, wiped your bewildered expression away after not finding anything called a Burgaiseic gracing the pages of the trusty, omniscient encyclopaedia of words, you will realise that the Burgaiseic does not, in fact, exist (and consequently, neither does the omniscient dictionary, for it does not contain my imaginary beast’s name), while the concept of cubes exists. It is like how when our eyes are, despite our combined wills, fascinated (I refer to the archaic sense of this word) by the Snake’s hungry stare, we might call the Snake a Snake but not a Burgaiseic, thus recognising that inimical beast; this false recognition consequently strips away some of its psychological grip. You will notice that naming it a Burgaiseic will not achieve the same effect. It is a hardly contested fact that Naming has the strength to strip a thing of its power (I concede that the Snake will still sink its fangs into us, but for the brief moment prior to its fatal bite, we are a little more at ease), to loosen any hold any thing may have on us; to name The Cube The Cube, then, is to maintain the illusion of comprehension, to impose the comprehensively understood structure of a 3-dimensional square onto something inexplicable, and therefore unfairly reaping all the benefits of understanding it, the benefits being the lack-of fear of it, and so, the confidence to ignore it.

I have just expounded—rather poorly—on the purpose of naming The Cube The Cube. All that is left is the rationale (Ha!) behind my calling it The Cube.

Hear this: the magnificence of cubes lies in their curious structure and mode of construction. Let me explain: the face of a conceptual cube finds its exact twin beside, across (through the body of the cube), below, above it; the conceptual cube is made up of the conceptual square, of which all its edges can be exchanged indefinitely and still form the same square, which, with their inconceivable thinness stack infinitely atop one another to form a conceivable 3-dimensional structure, or which, with merely 6 of them, through the hermetic seal they form when their edges inconceivably fill up that infinite gap that exists between all matter, is able to form a cube, which contains within its circumscribed volume a perfect vacuum. The point where the vertex of the right angle is materialised extends the two—in the case of a 2-dimension square—or three—in the case of a 3-dimensional cube—sure arms in perfect angular symmetry with one another, which, where- or whenever they stop, form a cube ten seconds in making in equal identity to a cube ten millennia in making, only the difference in size discounted. Furthermore, a cube can be conceptualised (and thus conceived) with merely a line, for all its bifurcations are based on the singular fact of the length of the genesis line. In a word: from one mere measurement, the whole concept of a cube and thus the whole cube itself can be understood instantly, completely, and free of error. The Cube, when I call, recognise, and finally kill, as The Cube, prevents incomprehensible anxiety from growing. Ergo, The Cube is, for the sake of peace of mind, best to be called The Cube. But—

Ryan Kwek is an emerging writer who currently lives and teaches in Singapore.