A black mirror for an ey
e to eye
confrontation
In my journey
of life, I have faced the black mirror more than once, as I have always had
trouble looking at my pale reflections and dark secrets deep within me. For
almost seven decades long, I have walked down the various highways of life and
struggled in the shifting sands of some of the world’s most remote beaches with
no full moon above and left unleashed and free, completely in the darkness. Yet
although free I cannot find myself or the place where my heart can see me eye
to eye in the darkened mirror.
Yesterday, I awakened
from another nightmare, drenching in my sweat, my conscious struggling to
forever forget, the sins I carried with me. Stealthily and silently stuffed in
my backpack of worries and what some would call pettiness false pretenses, that
haunt my mind when asleep or awake stirring my soul deeply inside. For some
reasons unknown, the backpack has gotten heavier and not a word is spoken.
I can’t even
watch my own reflection, my shadows have stayed behind me as the sun goes up
and down, and no mirror is bright enough to capture the light, as the black
mirror leaves me standing there, looking for something in the light and nothing
I find, tells me my life is right
I know my time
is coming; I can sense the dawning of my spirit within the darkness that is
falling. No security camera can catch me, no video of my reflection exists as I
dwell deep in the chambers of silence and fear, where words have lost their
meaning and my eyes are surely blind knowing that my time is near.
Without a looking
glass, a preferred dark black mirror, my eyes can’t see myself in the eye. I tried
a lighter mirror but it cast no reflection. A black mirror can see me well, or
so I have been told and the truth the mirror can surely tell, discloses my
trials and tribulations as I struggle to see myself in the black black mirror.
My face is pale
and my mind is dark and sometimes blank just like the mirror. The blackness of
the mirror knows no reflection, it captures no light. Trying so hard to see if
it would cast my soul or pride, or show the vagueness of my thickened hide, as
the sweat rolls off my brow and not a word is spoken.
I chose not to
be vain or filled with false vanity looks, but instead it speaks the names of those
I have forgotten and speaks of dreams that have been broken. My spirits seeks and
never finds the message in a bottle. It seems nobody cares about the curse that
someone cast on me when I was young, a curse that has never been broken and the
names of those who dwell inside, their names have never been spoken.
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