Mirrors. It's a funny relationship we have. Here they stand, all around us... Silent against our walls. Not an inch they move, to the left nor to the right. To abandon and move away, or to come closer is a choice impossible for them to make. They remain forever where we decide to chain them. Freedom? No. Not for them... For mirrors do not choose, they obey... And we command.
Mirrors. Vulnerable and in the open. Exposed to the anger of their masters. To the rage we cannot control. For if in arms reach, they are broken. Forever. And unlike our fellow friends, time is not taken to mend their wounds. To patch them together again. Oh no they lie in pieces on the ground, victims of uncontrollable passion. Innocents who accept the blame. Silent. They have no heart. No nerves, no feelings. To cry, to hurt, to breathe is nothing they can do... But I wonder, if they had what we have... If blood ran through them... What would they feel? The next time we thrust our petty rage at it's surface, if it had a face like yours, would we guilt at the sight of it's cracks? Would we regret? Would we fix its broken heart and sew back each piece because we know they feel too?
Mirrors. Mirrors silent and still. We awake everyday and the first thing we look at, is it. I wonder about the next time we foolishly examine ourselves, consumed by our image and thoughts of perfection. The questions we ask. Hair up, or hair down? Too dressy, too casual? Perfect, except here. Pretty, except there. If mirrors had a voice, what would they say? Would they yell, would they scream... Would they agree, or disagree? Would they say 'your beautiful... no need for this' when we stand... Pushing out our chest an back our shoulders, taking in all our breath, stretching out the skin over your stomach, then smile. Content. At the sight of the faint lines of your ribs. At the image of what you SHOULD be... Pulling back your thighs... Flex, stretch... For the perfect angle. Would the mirror comment on our stupidity? Or merely abuse our self-centredness. Would they understand? Because mirrors see the real you. Insecurities. Faults that we highlight. No one else see's them... Not like this at least. So would a mirror answer our questions, our doubts? And if so... What would they say?
Mirrors. One flat sheet. They return whatever they see... But if mirrors had eyes, how many things would they see? If you sit back and think about all that you do. Here. In your room. Behind the locked door. If you make a list, and replace a mirror with a human. What would they witness? Pain. Anger. Pleasure. Frustration. How much?
'She sat there' it would say 'on the floor... She was crying. Tears that seemed to burn because it got louder, her sobs... Rocking back and forth as they streamed and washed away her makeup... Though and strong she seems. Always happy. But here she sits, clutching her bear, for security'
'She's choking. In this white light. Her fingers shoved down her throat. Deeper. Deeper. She's searching for something. The end to her image. Heaves and gasps for air. Coughs but quickly refrain's, for she can not be heard. Breathing deep and heavy, she drives them in once again. Her eyes shut in discomfort, she strains... But once it's out, her throat is cleared... She turns to me with blood shot eyes... And smiles... Skinnier and skinnier. It's all gone...'
'Always serious' one other would say 'always staring out the window. Quiet. Almost no emotion. Ever. Her dark hair casts shadows over her green eyes... She's holding something. Shiny. She's twirling it round and round... So close, so clumsy... Almost oblivious to its presence in her hands. She's frowning and I can almost see it's blades hiss at her skin. Almost daring her to make a mistake. She's frowning. Harder and harder then suddenly. SLASH. In a second. She sighs, and watches her worries pour to the ground'
'She's here again. Standing in front of me. Beautiful. Golden hair, blue eyes... With a pen in her hand... Why is there a pen in her hand?' it questions 'she then takes off the cap, and as her tears build, she draws circles. Shaking. Red with anger. Around her stomach. Her arms. Her face. Her smile... Everywhere. And with each thrust "wrong" she declares.'
The mirrors we have surround us. Silent, unmoving... But they are here. And how much can they see? If they were to speak, how much would they say? If they could hear, would they listen?
They are the closest to us, physically. Emotionally? Almost the nearest. When we go to sleep, they are there... When we awake, always... So it's a funny relationship we have. Them and us.
Truly lucky we are that they can utter no word, for if they could, were would we be?