In ancient Egyptian mythology, Aaru, or the Field of Reeds, was the name for the heavenly paradise. In contrast, Duat, also called Amenthes, was the underworld. The feather of Maat was a symbol of truth, justice, and balance. If a person’s heart was found to be lighter or equal in weight to the feather, they had led a virtuous life and would enter Aaru. However, if the heart was heavier than the feather, they would face the second death.
In a different world then this but similar, not far away nor too close, there was a village beneath the colorful stars. The sky shimmered like a rainbow, and raindrops fell from the clouds in streaks of color. The clouds were white, yet they still rained in color. Under a red star, on a rainbowy rainy day, a girl lay on a blanket atop a rooftop, gazing at the endless sky, crying for who she had become—every day, every night. There were three rules she had to follow. Rule one: never tell where you came from, or the villagers might kill you. Rule two: never reveal your true thoughts emotions, or the villagers might imprison you. Rule three: always show respect to your elders.
Each morning, she awoke to the pink beams of sunlight—a guardian watching over her village. Each night, she slept beneath the moon, a place where she could reflect. One morning, like all others, she woke up with the pink light of the sun. She lived by the rules, slept beneath the moon, and dreamed among the stars. Yet, on a day when the sky turned black and the streets ran red, with a dawn bluer than the ocean, this little girl broke all three rules. She created. She spoke. And for the first time, she cried before them all.
The villagers were furious, raging like a stormed sea haunted by pirates. That night, the fires in her home were extinguished, food was no longer placed on the table, and the light in her mother’s eyes—gone. Forever. No one asked what she had created. No one asked why she had spoken. No one asked why she cried. The only thing she knew was that, to protect her family, she had to leave. Leave to find food, leave to find a better life, leave to miss the home she had always known.
One scorching day, she stumbled upon a path and found a tunnel beneath the ruins of her house, shielded from the dust. A sudden light surrendered her. She had died, burning like the sun of Ra. She awoke in a world different from her own. And she found her heart upon a grand scale. On one side lay her heart; on the other, the feather of Maat.
And every day, she faced another judgment—why she had dared to imagine beyond the walls of her village. Unbelievably, her heart was lighter than the feather of Maat. She told her story over and over again, through time and wind, through whispers carried in the night. She had given voice to what was silent, just as the poets of Babylon once carved their verses into clay, refusing to let their words be lost to time. Because in the end, she only expressed and created for her mom, who had been suffering far more than a thousand years—longer than the ruins of Babylon. And that, more than anything, was what made her heart light.
A burnt film
