No Bottom, Just the Mirror

More about No Bottom, Just the Mirror

The fool steps off again like he always does.
No plan. No rope. Just that dumb grin and the little dog trotting after him like loyalty is a disease.

Everybody thinks it’s the fall that matters.
It isn’t.
It’s what waits when falling runs out.

There’s no bottom.
That’s the trick.
You don’t hit anything—you just slow down into it, like the air turns thick, like regret, like memory. Then it’s water, or something pretending to be water. It gets into your mouth, your ears, your thinking. You don’t choke. You spread.

He spreads.

The fool starts to feel everything at once—
not in some holy way, not clean—
more like too many hands on your skin, too many eyes inside your head.
He laughs. Of course he does. He always laughs when he should be terrified.

The dog swims circles around him, calm as a saint that never existed.

Down there, there’s no up, no map, no God keeping score. Just pressure. Just being wrapped in it. He’s not drowning in love. He’s drowning in himself, and it feels good enough to stay.

Then he sees it.

Right there.
Close enough to touch.
Another face.

Not a monster. Not horns or fire.
That would’ve been easier.
This thing looks back at him like it knows how to forgive him.

Same eyes.
Same tired mouth.

The ultimate evil, if that’s what you want to call it, doesn’t bare its teeth. It doesn’t scream. It leans in, soft, almost kind, like it’s been waiting for him to finally shut up and arrive.

The fool stops laughing.

For a second—just one—
he understands something ugly:

there was never a fall.
there was never a bottom.

just a long, slow meeting
with himself.

The dog floats between them, wagging its tail in the dark like none of this matters.

And maybe it doesn’t.

The fool reaches out.

So does the other.

And the water—
whatever it is—
holds them both like it doesn’t care which one is real.