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The Mirror (standard:Psychological fiction, 1630 words)
Author: awenyddionAdded: Aug 03 2005Views/Reads: 2009/1112Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sometimes the image that we see, is not what we want.
 



There are times in life that you find yourself alone. Staring at a wall.
Trying to see beyond that boundary that separates you from the outside 
world. Sometimes I think it is special, protector of lives and privacy. 
Then, much later the enchantment fades and the insanity comes, taking 
over the senses letting trough an animalist nature only understood by 
the beasts outside in the wild. The need to feel free, outside that 
barer. Oh! How I long to be outside, to breath air that doesn't feel 
heavy on the chest and to bask in the sun that shines only from the 
heavens. The glow warms the soul, the heat sneaks into your clothes, 
causing sweet perspiration that only makes you feel more alive with 
each drop. 

If it is to rain, then to feel the drops fall along my skin, bring every
nerve to life, soaking every part of the body with the liquid that 
purifies. The sensation becomes climatic as you breath the smooth cold 
air through your nostrils. Oh how I desire to be outside tonight. The 
night is the best part of the day. Its bewitching beauty makes me 
dream; want to rest, to dance, to sing. The moon, the ever-changing orb 
in the sky kisses my skin with her soft, nurturing glow. The night! Oh, 
dear sweet night. A time for peace, for silence, for loneliness. Yes, 
in spite of the exquisiteness, the emptiness prevails, causing a weight 
on my small chest; breathing is no longer powerful but weak, as the 
pressure increases. 

It is at times like this that a need inside me surges from the depths of
my tormented soul. A mirror of my own weaknesses. I stand before that 
glass that can fool us and at the same time, tell the hurtful truth. My 
vision falls all over my thick exterior, sometimes I feel repulsed, 
others I am just not there. My eyes become empty and I find myself once 
more looking at a picture of nothingness that is myself, through a 
glass cube that surrounds me. 

The odd evenings when my critical eye rises, and my mood is so low that
the earth´s core can consume it, I examine myself in every detail: 

I begin with my straight hair, once my one true beauty, now the straw
that decorates my face. No extraordinary form of vanity can cure it, no 
soft words of sweet kisses can clear it of its curse. The soft dark 
brown has turned old, dull and shines less. I lift a strand in between 
two fingers, its coarse texture scratches my fingertips. Letting it go 
and sighing, I continue. 

My eyes. The window into my soul. I stare into the brown depths, not
distinguishing the different shades and textures, they all are the 
same. I want to read my mind, see what others see. The laughter, the 
joy, the sadness, the hate. Yet no, I cannot understand what is behind 
that chocolate-covered irises. Those little pools are hidden behind 
short eyelashes and undefined brows. I never understood the power of 
eyes, because I don't see what is so important. Does the world need to 
know who is behind those lenses? No, it doesn't. It is to overcome with 
it's own misery to understand my own. My eyes hide my soul completely. 
Why should I share, what belongs to me and only me? Even now I have to 
force my eyes onto the mirror, see the reflection without any mercy. I 
sometimes believe I don't deserve it. Mercy.  People, speak about it 
all the time and yet they have no idea how to share or give it. Those 
hypocrites are just more specks, like myself, that want the world to 
stop and take notice. Except, they wish is to revolve around their 
egotistic minds. I let the world go on without me, because in the end 
it will not cry my death. I will cry its. 

I move further down, skipping my large nose, smack dab in the center of
my oval face. I don't wish to give it to much attention. What is so 
important about a nose except for its function?  It helps me live. 
Taking in oxygen and releasing carbon. Inhale, exhale, again and again, 
without stopping, without thinking. I want to find something special 
about my nose. No history to back it up, no special feature. Only that 
it is there, decorating my face and helping continue my existence with 
its ever-constant purpose. 

Finally I land on my mouth. The small oval piece of rose flesh. I don't
find it out of the ordinary. Like my nose, it helps me exist. It being 
the only way I can communicate to the world. Out of that small pink 
skin comes a voice like no other. I don't like my voice. It is not 
husky and sensuous, nor musical nor elegant. In fact, the sound is so 
annoying that I can't imagine why I speak at all. My voice, my laugh is 


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