The Monster That Comes From The Mirror
It is made of what the mirror is made of, it is not to myself I refer. It is not to myself that I refer, but it speaks with my voice. It speaks with my voice, and it shows me what I do, but it is not me.
As I stare into the mirror the monster pushes toward me my face out from the mirror. First the face begins to push out and then the rest of the mirror around it forms into a creature like a dog. Its body shows the same colors as my clothing; my neck extends into its, unless I am naked, then it is all flesh-toned. And its teeth, I suppose his teeth, curve sharply outward to contort my own mouth. It speaks what I speak with evil intent. It tells tales of an ugliness I am that I am not. The monster in the mirror wishes to make me see myself as ugly, but it reflects only itself after creating its face of the light it has received from me.
It spits and mocks. It misconstrues and misrepresents. It has no ears to hear, nor eyes to see; it returns only a coating approximating me surrounding what is inside of it: nothingness. It speaks my face as though evil, but speaks only from its own tongue: what it doesn’t have inside. It doesn’t mean to accuse me of myself with hatred, it merely communicates its own nature with the words it has learned from me. That coating which would try to be more warns me to remember I am to cultivate something passed my smile, my hair. That monster is not me because there is something more than the pearl-shine of my teeth, or my tears of confusion, or the thickness of my brow. What is it in me that can respond to it with kindness?
Is this the only mirror from which a monster creates itself? Have all mirrors such potential?
I turn my back to the distortion of myself speaking to me from nothingness. It becomes louder taunting me to punch it silent; I remember the feel of pulling shards from my hand the last time I was hurt by its derision still. I remember looking at myself in tiny pieces tinted red here and there as I winced to clean the mess I made and make myself whole again. I remember healing and how hard it was to hold my hand back as the new mirror animated just as the old. But the pain behind the bandage fortified my will not to lash out toward the nothingness sneering at me a second time.
I turn my back to the mask of me covering perfect hollowness and speaking the same; as it becomes louder I become more silent. I feel almost sorry for it for it seems to want to exist, but then I remember that there is nothing there to exist, and I begin to walk away.
I will return to the mirror to see quickly what will help my visage better express what otherwise cannot be conveyed from the heart of I am. And when the monster emerges and the nothingness begins to speak, I will walk away again; it is then that I already should have adjusted in a useful way, to linger longer would just be in vain.
Tygarjas Twyrls Blog 