The knees were starting to hurt. It seemed like an eternity had passed since the beginning of the descent.
The trail was steep and muddy and seemed desert, populated only by a few hermaphrodite snails.
It was uneven, sometimes so narrow that the only way to proceed was to almost get on all fours.
The path, outlined by an old tangle of brambles, sinuously developed along the entire gorge.
They stopped in front of a thorn and pulled out their knife to cut off a slice from its oval base.
They quickly looked at it and put it in their pocket to count the rings later.
They had been walking for a while when they realized something was shadowing them.
At first, the movements out of the corner of their eye looked like nothing more than the last rays of light reaching the inside of the den.
An irregular dance, celebrating their farewell from the surface world.
Once reached a greater depth, it became clear that those flashes were performed by an animal rather than an electromagnetic spectrum.
The presence eventually revealed itself while they were quenching their thirst from a spiderweb laden with dewdrops.
They were leaning out, carefully licking one of the outermost filaments as they saw a lithe shape on the other side of the spider's lair.
It studied them carefully as it padded closer and plunged the pointed face between the hydrophilic crochet.
They drank together from opposite sides of the web, holding eyes.
The ghostly figure glanced at them before setting off again. They accepted the invite and followed it longly.
The vegetation was different in that stretch, punctuated by lignicolous caps and a mixture of twirly vines that guided them like garlands.
As the silhouette started to move faster, they had the feeling of being close. "Almost there," replied a voice in their head.
They knew everyone down there communicated like this, but they had no idea how effortless it would have been to access the network.
"At first, listening will be easier than making yourself heard. But on the other hand, that's the only way to blend in, is it? To listen."
They wondered how weird it could have been to be the newcomer in a place like that.
To be seen without the power of reading others back.
Avoiding a root sticking out of the ground, they wondered how others would have reacted once learning about all their fears.
Was there really nothing one could keep to themself? This time, no answer.
They tried not to be distracted by the crawling presences, focusing on the thin white horns of their guide.
Once reached the glade, it was clear they were being expected.
They entered the group as those present followed with a thousand eyes.
Everybody quietly formed a circle, watching them settle in the center of that spore powdered clearing.
They watched them unpacking the few things they had and silently asked to take a better look. Everyone chuckled at the sight of the pencil.
"I sometimes use it to draw, too", they thought defensively. "Soon you won't need it for that either."
They looked around. It wasn't too different from what they had imagined, just a little smaller.
They weaved everything: the food, the alcoves where to rest, their hair, and the light layers that barely covered them.
The air was surprisingly dry, and they began to undress as well. Their white shadow was now gone.
“Here everything is shared, and every day we choose a new name. The only rule is to remember that everything changes. Will you be able to adapt?"
"Picolo Micelio" text by Zoë De Luca Legge / works by Pietro Agostoni, Livia Bertacca, Casa Fantasma, Sofia Bordin, Agata Ferrari Bravo, Alice Fiorelli, Luca Frati, Adrienne Kammerer, KouDada, Anousha Mohtashami, Victoria Palacios, Julia Strandman, Sandrotrilpat / pics by Matteo Strocchia and Marco Servina / digital artwork and post production by Stefano K Testa / web development by Lorenzo Rivosecchi / music by Loto Retina recorded at C3 during Picòlo World on 9th April of 2022 / thanks to Reptilian Expo, Matteo Coffetti and C3 crew / curated by Livia Bertacca and Alessandro Veneruso