A Moment's Respite

The acrobat stood on his perch, his left hand firmly grasping the trapeze bar. He stared down at the awful abyss below him. It was about a yard wide, eight feet long and six feet deep. He thought he heard voices coming from it. Some were soft and soothing, but not all. He also thought he could hear his own voice whispering from out of that void. At least he imagined he heard distant, whispering voices, some familiar, and all rising up like vapor. But, if so, try as he might, he could not quite decipher what the voices were saying. And although the abyss wasn't deep, it was blanketed in a gloom, a darkness his straining eyes could not penetrate. All he could see was dust leisurely rising up from the tenebrous void and then gently swirling back into it. Yet there was a rhythm to the dust's ascent and descent that, for reasons he could not explain, charmed him and comforted him. He stared into the mysterious recess for some time, not really thinking about anything, just passively observing; so he could not state when he first noticed it. He knew only that, once having seen it, he could not take his eyes off of it. It was a light, a still, small light that seemed to shine from beyond the depth of the abyss. It was then he noticed the dust that rose on that beam of light did not descend again into the dark. So, smiling, he grasped the trapeze bar with both hands and swung from off his perch.