What is a mirror?
I believe we do have this commonality, you and I. An assurance of delectable indulgence in things we might not even feel attached to. The beautifully romantic landscapes of warm showers and abundant pillows to fill the sense of human intimacy lost in the thick of it. I try not to be so ominous, but here we are, like sitting ducks, my foreboding word vomit staining your perceived unease. It’s okay, I promise I’m not using it as my chance to call you out per se, but wake you up. There are always protruding factors of that extra comfort that doesn’t quite fill it how we hoped.
We are the reflections.
Yeah, that sounds especially scary, considering when you’re told you’re a mirror, it’s only logical you have to be a reflection of something. We don’t really see it yet. The reflections we can- or should- be aware of.
A mirror has such the responsibility of knowing exactly what every reality has to be that it loses its purpose. The biggest question ever to be asked of such an habitual object is;
What is the actual material of a mirror?
Do we know that it really isn’t made up of our entirety? Scattered, dirty clothes on the floor, a heated pimple we can’t seem to pop, the painting of dehydrated skin with expired makeup. A sacred view into our even more sacred lives, with a trust of the normality. Normality isn’t the reflection, neither is the comfort of looking at it’s purpose. The reflection is always that of the extraordinary.
So, I guess, If I told you that you were a mirror, the question for such an habitual object would be;
Would that be the normality?