She stood there; looking at herself; looking at centuries of her reflection in the mirror. In a room plastered with mirrors on all sides, she could see her being reflected again and again in a million different mirrors. But unlike her reflection multiplied by infinite times, she could see herself age as with each reflection. A six year self stood in the forefront today, so the visions of herself as a baby were dimmer and her reflection of herself as a 60 year old even dimmer but all still there, staring at her. She is surrounded by herself and her image all over, unable to see what lies beyond. But there is a ‘beyond’ and it’s not just her waking reality but also the life of her dreams. Not a life as perfect as one’s dream but a life within her dreams; life that is shorter than her waking life, but is there as consistent as her breathing.
She doesn’t know it yet but she has the power within her mind to choose whether she dissolves into her waking reality or to her dream reality from amidst this company of reflections. So today she chose her dream-like waking reality. Unaware that she exited her room of mirrors as an adult. Her simple waking reality of a six year old lost somewhere in that room of mirrors and it’s many illusive corridors.
And I look at her from somewhere. It not above, it not on the side, its somewhere where I am still an observer but not just to the exterior but to the currents that flow through the vision of the girl in the mirror; I am not sure if I can say that I see her from within because I can see the room of mirrors and the girl and her exits to her dreamscapes and her passing through to her waking life, but I don’t see myself. I am not sure if I see her because she is me or because I am a spectator and made it up. But I do think I know her best and I know that she doesn’t know I can see her. But I am not sure if I am the only one that sees her for I see no one but her, not even myself.