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There is a mirror in my parlor, which I keep behind a veil of dark velvet, and in this mirror is a most unsettling image. My reflection there, is of a pale cast, and her lips seem wan, where as mine are full and robust. Her teeth are weak as are her eyes-- and she troubles me, like a vampire, perhaps even a ghost of old age feeding at my bosom and sucking the warm tendrils of youth and life from me like fine webs intermeshed about my heart. Her weakness troubles me. I am at times ashamed that she is me and at times ashamed that I hide her behind a curtain, so that no one might see her. ...But, I always return. I return in almost awe, limping and desperate, like an old drunk to her whiskey again. I cannot stay away. I kiss her cold lips and look so closely into her dark eyes, that they become one broad and endless horizon of green and her pupils grow to encompass the sky and draw me into the holes of endless black. It has always been so, that in mirrors I am myself, yet in this, I am a weak and palsied creature who stands trembling before myself and often weeps. I despise this mirror, but I treasure it also, as it is indeed aged and very lovely. |
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| We are two sides of the same mirror: we may forever watch one another, but never truly affect a change, merely immitate and temper ourselves. We have never peered into the looking glass but with longing for that which we did not find, and never left without some hope of future (impossible) discoveries. We may run forever, but never find an angle at which we might truly lose our counterparts: I am always there, and you. Do -you- feel the subtle bindings of reflection? |
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