Man in the mirror

One of those mornings again. Waking up to a world that is too loud, too bright– one feels faded in contrast. Not really here, only a specter letting the noise and color pass through oneself.

Brushing thin strands of hair in front of the mirror, one needs the reassurance of a reflection to know one is still real. One needs to see the healthy flush of the skin, the bright twinkle in the eye.

This is only the reflection one sees in the mirror, however. All throughout the day one hears how pale and tired and sickly one looks. In pictures taken, one blends into the wallpaper; a shape of a person, but no presence.

Is he more real? One begins to wonder. The man in the mirror?

Pressing one's finger to the cool surface, one may be surprised to find the very same fingers passing through like air. As if nothing stood between one reality and the other, and never had.

In fascination, one might be urged to dive in further, tipping forwards and awkwardly stumbling into...

Quiet. Stillness, dulled colors. What a breath of relief.

A thought occurs, that it was always meant to be this way. It is the world one belongs in, the silence. Cold, detached, calming like a winter's day.

One has found the answers, the map to paradise. Only in doing so condemned another. The man in the mirror has left in the same breath, left to fend for himself in the world of the really-living.

One turns around to look and finds...

He does not flinch at the sounds and colors. He becomes them, takes his place in the chaos with confidence.

The man-not-in-the-mirror-anymore moves his hands carefully, and one is compelled to follow suit. Beat for beat, strings tugging at every muscle, making one feel like a marionette.

A strange sensation that pegs the question – who of the two is really condemned now?