There we stood, in front of his vertical mirror. I, adjusting my lipstick and hair – him, entering in a swift, sudden action of affection, bringing his arm around my shoulders. I stopped, playing my fragmentary role in our impromptu tableaux. We stopped. For a moment : just looking at ourselves together.
I quickly turned away and broke off.
What is it about mirrors that provoke emotion? Or is it not the mirror, but me? The sudden inner churning of my temperament at the signs of affection. My compulsive, uncontrollable, sudden need for space between the other entities of the world and myself… yet the ease with which I can cast the blame to the mirror is far more appealing than a self dissection.
The ease with which plain glass forces us to confront reality is fascinating. How can it lie, when it presents before you all that your eyes can see true? Standing beneath the arms of someone in front of that polished world shows you for who you are, and who they are in relation to you. It scares me. Why would I glance away, seek refuge, from what I’ve created? Life, for an instant, became unbearable – for in that instant, I was chastised by a looking glass, and saw truly what I have become. Not who : what, for underlying reasons and complexes are irrelevant to the stark realities etched into the glass.
Look away, look away.
Shattering glass would never fix what stands before it.
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