The Looking Glass

There is nothing so mesmerizing or terrifying as water at night. The surface hides much beneath its depths in the best light, but in the dark that vaguely translucent nature of water becomes opaque as an obsidian mirror, and the shallowest pool can seem as deep as the sea. How alluring it is to see the ripples dance across the reflection of shadows. We feel a temptation to jump through that mysterious façade, to measure the fathoms of oblivion. If we should take the plunge and feel the darkness consume us, if the cold should render us momentarily stunned, if we should burst back into the world to inhale all the senses that were washed away and gasp for mundane air, made precious by deprivation and shock, would it not be ecstasy? The thrill of uncertainty offers the ultimate seduction and the most tangible bliss. But, more often than not, we do not take the plunge, not because we are afraid of the anticipated euphoria, but because we know that, in such water, we are entirely out of our element.