Looking Back

I don’t know who looks at me when I gaze into the mirror. Try as I might, I don’t know who it is. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to see. It’s easier to look away and cover the mirrors with sheets. Without light, what can they do? If they can’t see, what can they tell me? Nothing. They can’t do anything without light, without something to reflect, so I shall not give them that power.

There are some surfaces that I cannot cover. I cannot escape the person completely, but I know I can hide. I have become a master of disguises. I put on a mask each time I venture into the world outside these walls. Each day has its own face, resting in between each use until I need it once again, but only if the day calls for it. It is cumbersome, but I would rather carry a mask than the burden of whoever the person looking back at me is.

I started crafting these masks long ago. They are made of light porcelain, a hard material sculpted into something soft with enough practice. It is a beautiful, shiny surface I lay upon my skin for a day. Each one I have painted by hand. Creating them required patience, time, and effort, and I have quite the collection of them by now. Some masks I painted and used for a while, but then gave up on, while others have only been worn once, others not even once. Some are cracked, worn with use, others shiny and new, awaiting the day I reach for them among their brethren. I did not want to throw all of my hard work away, so I display them on my wall. I display all except the ones I wear. Those are my most precious possessions.

I wear seven masks, each one unique, each one a masterpiece. On these porcelain faces I have painted a picture. It is the same picture each time, only slightly altered. This one has a bird, that one only a feather. This one has a white cloud, the other a slightly darker one. They must be recognisable, but not obvious. Each is for a different audience, you see. Each day has new eyes, why not give them each something uniquely beautiful to look at? And, with each passing day, these faces are also on the person in my brief reflections. Those look the same each day, but I do not pay them much mind. I much prefer to ignore them.

The masks aid me in navigating through oceans while I’m out, and once I return to the safe haven of my home I put them away again. There is no light to reflect in my home, so nothing to hide from. I flourish in the embrace of these walls. What others see as a confinement laced with a melancholic solitude, I see as my playground. In darkness, they see nothing, I see the universe. My universe. I am a god of my own making, the almighty and all-knowing king of each echo that runs back to me. Within these walls I am free to create and destroy, rise and fall, breathe and perish. There is no one to look to, look for or look at. No one looking back. Unless, that is, I give these mirrors the power to do so. But that is my choice and mine alone. I am the Lord of Light, and Darkness is my domain.