THE HOLLOW TRUTH ================ Published: January 5, 2025 Author: Daniel Conderman Context: Recovered Conderman.Group one-act play Original URL: https://conderman.group/2025/01/the-hollow-truth/ Setting: A small, dimly lit room. A simple bed with white sheets. The room is sparsely furnished -- just a chair, a small desk, and a nightstand. The walls are bare, except for a cracked mirror. A window reveals a dull, overcast sky outside. The atmosphere is heavy, and the room feels almost like a tomb. The man, JACKSON, lies in bed, his eyes snapping open, gasping for air as if awakening from a deep sleep. His breathing is frantic, and his gaze darts around the room as if he's unsure of where he is. He sits up suddenly, as though hit with a revelation. JACKSON (spoken quickly, to himself): "I saw it. I -- I saw it. Oh God. Oh God... it's all true. It's all real, isn't it? We -- we never stood a chance. We were never meant to." (He stumbles out of bed, pacing, unable to contain the rush of emotions coursing through him.) JACKSON (desperately): "How could we? How could we -- how could we not know? What is this? What are we? We were just... pieces. Trapped. Pieces of a game. Disposable." (He pauses, suddenly very still, looking out the window at the dreary landscape as if searching for answers in the world beyond.) JACKSON (calmer, reflecting): "I woke up. But I didn't just wake up. It was something more. A... unlocking. A chain of truths, like a flood that came crashing in. Every moment, every life -- just woven into us. The whole history of humanity... laid bare. And what did it all mean? Nothing. Nothing at all. We were never anything but a mistake, a discarded experiment. An accident. Nothing special. We didn't choose any of it. We didn't even matter." (He walks to the chair, then picks up the mirror. He examines his face closely, looking for something -- anything -- familiar.) JACKSON (to himself, hollow): "Was I born for a reason? What was the reason? Was I meant to live? Did they even care what happened to me? Were they even real? Those -- those Ananiki, those things -- those cold gods who came here, played with our blood like it was clay, left us to rot. I'm just a leftover. That's all we are. Dust. Just dust." (He starts pacing again, faster now, his voice rising.) JACKSON (shouting in frustration): "None of this is real! None of it! All of it, the history, the culture, the societies we've built... meaningless! They came, they twisted us, and they left. And what's left? This. This goddamn nothingness! We're stuck, trapped, in a pit with no walls. We think we're the crown of creation, but we're nothing more than dirt on a cosmic scale. And the worst part is -- no one knows! No one knows how insignificant we are, how utterly abandoned we've been!" (He collapses onto the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with disbelief. The emotional outpouring has left him exhausted.) JACKSON (quiet, almost to himself): "I thought -- I thought, maybe, just maybe, there was something more. But no. There's nothing. We just are. No reason, no purpose. Just existence. Survival. And the worst part is, I can't even blame them. We were never worth their time, were we? Nothing." (He sits up, blinking as he gazes blankly into the distance, as if hearing his own words for the first time. His mind is racing, unsure whether to believe or reject this crushing truth.) JACKSON (disconnected): "So we built our monuments. We chased our dreams. And for what? So we could stare into the abyss, knowing it doesn't care. There's nothing outside that window... nothing beyond. What matters when you know it doesn't even matter? What are we supposed to do when we know we are, at best, just an afterthought in someone else's mind? The truth... is too much. I can't take it. I can't do this... I can't be this. This... this is who we are. Nothing. Just... nothing. There is no grand design. It's just a cosmic... screw-up." (A long pause. The weight of his realization begins to sink in. The room feels colder, the air heavier.) JACKSON (quiet, resigned): "I used to think I was something. That I mattered. That somehow, someway, I had a role to play. But now? Now I see it -- we don't even have a role. We never did. There is no purpose to any of this. No meaning to our lives. No meaning to our struggles. We're just... here. Here in this cold, indifferent universe. And it doesn't care. It never cared." (He stands slowly, his body slumping in exhaustion, a sense of profound defeat in his movements. He reaches for the covers on the bed, wrapping them around himself tightly, as if trying to find some semblance of comfort in the face of the harsh truth.) JACKSON (mumbling, almost to himself): "Then... I guess I'll just hide. I'll just... sleep. At least there's still that. I may not understand it all, but at least I'm something. At least I feel something... even if I have no idea what it is. I think... I think, therefore, I am." (He curls into a ball, pulling the blankets tightly around himself, as though shielding himself from the weight of reality. His voice is barely a whisper.) JACKSON (with finality): "At least I am something. Even if it's just a mistake. At least I exist." (The stage fades to black as Jackson lies beneath the covers, a small, insignificant figure in a vast, uncaring universe.) End.