Mirror

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just a simple and extremely short, short story. I wrote it just to test some things. Hope whoever reads it enjoy it. The inspiration came to me when I was sitting in the bathtub. I always fantasize that mirrors are gateways to other dimensions.

Submitted: May 17, 2019

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Submitted: May 17, 2019

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Reality, a thin wound, a transparent sound ringing in my brain. No our brain. The bathwater is lukewarm. It's perfect. The water ripples at my movement. My evanesce gaze takes in my surrounding. It reminds me of the corporeality of my existence. 
F a d i n g.
I stare into that mirror...a mirror of countlessness that meets my gaze night after night. That mirror that stares into our fabric - that is the fabric of our lucidity. So easy to comprehend from such a vantage point. Unravelling us into the strings of creation. 
But I snap back.
 I snap back to the water draining from the tub. The sounds of footsteps making its way past the bathroom door. I hear a fly buzzing past me. My attention flies from one thing to another. I lose my focus on what matters... Was that my mother talking to my brother in the kitchen?
I put on my night clothes in my room and make myself ready for bed. Sitting on the bed I perceive surroundings with a vane stare.  There are closed curtains at my bedroom windows. My oak door is closed. I feel safe. And in front of me, a mirror framed with white wood.
F a d i n g.
Our eyes meet. Unravelling us into the strings of creation. Back to the truth. Back to what actually m a t t e r s. Not the fact that I am a boy or a girl. Not the fact that we're here. Not the fact that I exist in a wound, beseeching to be treated. Pleading to join it, the entity in the mirror. But the truth, reality, understanding. No, not understanding, but knowing, knowing that I am all of that, none of that, and in between that. Conscienceness and unconscienceness entangled, becoming one. Coherent, cogent, communicative and insane, fascinated in losing myself. No, rather gaining myself. Becoming completely aware of that. Which. Does. Not. Exist. But exists somewhere. Be it in the mind, be it the dreams and lucid dreams, be it in this preposterous, elementary wound. The once transparent ringing turns ambiguous. Reaching the pinnacle of my vouchsafe ascension. Hearing myself, dying, living, ensue abnormality and remaining normal. What might happen to me?

 


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