He stared into the glass. The glass and the man inside the glass stared back. Everything else didn't seem to matter. It all seemed to be like paper; foldable, unfoldable, crushable, thin. Or at least he wanted it to seem so.
Maybe then he'd be able to tear up the grass, tear down the clouds, rip the sky apart, rip the earth apart, and then finally dismantle himself. Banish himself into an everlasting exile; free to explore the magnitude of his only passion. A passion that had been robbed of him, thieved in a single night, lost without the slightest regret.
It was stolen when he stepped into the world of glass, steel, and green paper. Briefcases and files, documents and suits. It began with promise, catapulting him to positions of honour and repute. Propelled by fame, smothered in false pride, he carefully and unknowingly crafted his own downfall. Unmatched in caliber, labelled and respected, he grew into ranks of glory, and also grew cold. Without time for emotion, his body became a machine; signing contracts, issuing cheques, printing bills, writing letters, pacifying press. He was worshipped by businessmen, blandished by critics, and praised by the public mass.
Eyes turned when he walked down the road, but now there was no-one. He was a shell; a passive instrument of commercial exploitation. He had lost.
And now he stood obscured in the morning mist, feet fixed upon a lush plain. Before him was a mirror, and within the mirror, a man. He was staring at himself in contempt, scorn, in disgust. The reflection stood calm. As invisible hands swiftly and silently painted this moment, to be remembered in time, he fell to his knees. His head cupped in his hands, the grass thirsted for his tears. His reflection still stood before him, rigid, unmoved. Determined, it stepped out of the mirror. It placed its cold hand upon the man's shoulder, and he looked up. Too tired for surprise, he asked simply, "Yes ?", and then looked down again.
The reflection quietly extended its arm to the man, and heaved him off the ground. "You are my past, not my reflection," said the man, and firmly took the reflection's hand in his. He shook it, let go, and said, "I have accepted you. And now I bid goodbye."
Ordinary
11 years ago
