Today, I moved in. I moved half a box of books, three garbage bags full of formal wear, an air mattress, and forty-two photos from childhood. In a different box: six candles, four plants, and a giant flag representing my state. I moved two boxes of kitchenware, seven movies, and a handful of precious jewelry. Proudly on display, a statue of a Maori deity, and a length of receipt paper with a list of opinions and long lost poetry. Hanging in the closet are eighteen scarves, graced by six varieties of shoes. Packed away somewhere are my wind chimes, and the lighthouse snow globe that pings like a music box.
My mirror looms stoically in the corner, overseeing the space, while it watches my face register the onslaught of a late-season cold. As the chaos becomes function, my worldly possessions scattered around me like aspen leaves, I wonder to myself: Is this who I am? What of these things enforces a definition? How can a small collection of inanimate objects so clearly reflect the way I live? My mirror chuckles at me, creaking and bending until I see things in a different light. After all, it knows something of reflection. So, I acknowledge it. I whisper sweet nothings, coaxing it into showing me a new angle. The planes of my face look different through the caress of candlelight. Satisfaction, for us, is mutual, each new image more brilliant than the last. I fear to touch, lest I shatter the radiance of the moment to find that I am only a two dimensional character. Eventually, the lights flicker and cease. Only then do I realize: even in the absence of all of the things I own, I exist. I am still the same person in the shadow as I am in the sun. The mirror's function, however, ceased when the lights no longer enabled reflection. It's purpose was defined by elements without purpose. In the dark, it lies lonely and sullen; those who can see are unfamiliar with helplessness.
It waits, catching the occasional burst from the headlights of a passing vehicle, finding wavelengths of color in an attempt to recapture it's definition. As the sun rises in the eastern sky, so will my mirror's omnipotence.
And yet, in this attempt, it will only rediscover it's own vanity. My mirror will know nothing of the epiphany in the dark, nor will it question that I look the same in the sunlight as I do every day. For that is how my mirror sees me. It sees everything: every angle, every change.
In this one night, my mirror has reflected the one thing that cannot be seen: these things do not deceive, nor define me. Only my eyes do.
My mirror looms stoically in the corner, overseeing the space, while it watches my face register the onslaught of a late-season cold. As the chaos becomes function, my worldly possessions scattered around me like aspen leaves, I wonder to myself: Is this who I am? What of these things enforces a definition? How can a small collection of inanimate objects so clearly reflect the way I live? My mirror chuckles at me, creaking and bending until I see things in a different light. After all, it knows something of reflection. So, I acknowledge it. I whisper sweet nothings, coaxing it into showing me a new angle. The planes of my face look different through the caress of candlelight. Satisfaction, for us, is mutual, each new image more brilliant than the last. I fear to touch, lest I shatter the radiance of the moment to find that I am only a two dimensional character. Eventually, the lights flicker and cease. Only then do I realize: even in the absence of all of the things I own, I exist. I am still the same person in the shadow as I am in the sun. The mirror's function, however, ceased when the lights no longer enabled reflection. It's purpose was defined by elements without purpose. In the dark, it lies lonely and sullen; those who can see are unfamiliar with helplessness.
It waits, catching the occasional burst from the headlights of a passing vehicle, finding wavelengths of color in an attempt to recapture it's definition. As the sun rises in the eastern sky, so will my mirror's omnipotence.
And yet, in this attempt, it will only rediscover it's own vanity. My mirror will know nothing of the epiphany in the dark, nor will it question that I look the same in the sunlight as I do every day. For that is how my mirror sees me. It sees everything: every angle, every change.
In this one night, my mirror has reflected the one thing that cannot be seen: these things do not deceive, nor define me. Only my eyes do.
I love how you started this post. I've been trying to think of something to say about it for the past 24 hours and nothing good has come to me. It is very well written though!
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