It’s difficult—and technically there’s no time to speak of.
There are games. But all the games are defective in some way. For example, they have a chess board, buts its missing some pieces. Ditto for the checkerboard. They have cards, but the decks are all messed up—several cards are missing. Someone got the brilliant idea of making a complete deck by combining cards from different decks. But none of the card decks are compatible—the size of the cards are not standardized and they are all different sizes, making it impossible to get a decent shuffle and annoying as hell to hold the cards. Even solitaire is impossible.
And don't even ask me about the Legos in Purgatory.
The scenery in Purgatory is all boring, like the inside of a cardboard box in all directions, and evening the other people have no faces and their “bodies” look like wisps of smoke. And if you try to talk to them they do not seem to hear, and the noises that come out of their mouths are horrifying to hear. If that’s not bad enough, everything smells like burning sulfur.
There’s nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. No TV. No radio or musical instruments. Just enough light to see the bland colors of beige, yellow, and brown. There’s nothing to look at, and nothing to do.
And so, eventually the newcomer to Purgatory comes to a realization that there’s absolutely nothing to do in Purgatory…except…pray.
So they pray. Even if they never prayed a day in their life.
They pray. Perhaps to a god or goddess or whatever flavor of deity they believe in or worship, or they pray to whatever cosmos may exist outside of this bland paper-box and puffs of smelly sulfur realm.
For escape. For reincarnation—the opportunity to try living life again only this time, being better. Being less of a jerk. “Please, another chance…” is a frequent refrain.
But nobody replies.
Regrets come up like vomit. Eventually all one can imagine is a seemingly infinite ocean of regrets. Bad choices, harms one has inflicted, missed opportunities, regrettable words or deeds…
Silence.
More praying ensues. It need not be formal. It might be, depending upon one’s upbringing or experiences. But eventually the prayer is going to be individualized, and from the heart.
Perhaps first for oneself, then, gradually, the newcomer’s thoughts will turn to others. And gradually—its hard to quantify in a realm without time—one’s sole thought is that no one else be so unfortunate to wind up in this godforsaken, boring and smelly place.
And when that moment arrives, if we can even speak of moments, there is finally liberation into That Which Comes Next.
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