Once I dreamt about nothing but brilliant white space. There was no up; there was no down, yet I could sense the presence of walls and parameters, and I was laying on a flat surface. Standing, I took note of the snow-colored hair that fell across my collarbones, and the stark white dress hanging from my shoulders. Examining my hands brought the realization that not only were my fingernails painted white, but my skin was paler than normal, as well. After looking myself over I raised my eyes and focused on the colorless space ahead. I knew there was something, but I did not know what that something was, or how long away it would take to reach. Nevertheless I began walking, barefoot, across the white plane.
There was no time, yet I could feel that it had been a while before I finally found that something I had been looking for. It was an oval mirror set in a plain gray frame, suspended in the bleached air. I was confused as I approached the glass, as I could not see my reflection, and found myself questioning just what kind of mirror it was if I could not see myself. Then, just as I was about to give up and turn away, the figure in the glass appeared.
I was staring into myself, yet it was not I. This girl had shadows cast across her image as she tucked absolute black hair behind her ear, flashing me a peek of black-painted nails. The dress that hung off of her shoulders was that of night, almost lost against the dark background of her own colorless world. The only tint shared between us in our equally stark worlds was the pop of green in our eyes. I reached out to the glass, and in performing this action, so did my reflection.
Our fingers touched—mine warm, hers cold—and as we watched each other and peered behind the other’s shoulders into the opposite realms, I found myself wondering which was more sinister: the white world of innocence and ignorance, or the black universe of truth and knowing. And I almost asked myself in the mirror if it were better to be brought into the light or kept in the dark.