The entire space glows. Before you there is only a stretch of rock, black as soot with darker veins running through it like river lines on a map. Where the rock ends there is silver light that hangs in the air, suspended like mist. Hanging above the space beyond the
precipice are dozens of pieces of mirror. Some fragments are jagged and long,
some are rounded and have pieces of black metal frame around the edges. They
reflect the light around the walls of the tent, creating so many canyons of
silver luminescence it is impossible to pinpoint exactly where it comes from. You walk to the edge
of the precipice, your footsteps echoing on stone as though you are in a deep
canyon. You peer over the edge, filled with mingling fear and curiosity. Below
is only a bed of feathers, no ground in sight. They are as pristine as snow,
with silver silhouettes that brighten in the undulating mirror light.
Looking over the precipice you begin to remember every time
you have felt disappointed, hurt or vengeful. You remember each wrong you have
done, each guilty deed that makes you cringe. It is reflected back at you in
the mirrors. You are suddenly very heavy, as though a weight is on each of your
shoulders, pressing on you and sinking your feet into the ground.
You leap and almost seem to freeze, floating midair among
bits of revolving glass. Then you fall. It is a slow descent, the mirrors
become smaller and you begin to see the patterns of light on the feathers below
more clearly.
You land in the bed of white, throwing feathers around you
that drift slowly down like pieces of paper, swaying to and fro. The weight you
felt falls away gradually, as though you left it on the precipice, until you
are as light as the feathers.
Art by Stephanie
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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