Reflecting upon reflection
Television at the end of the bed reflects my image back at me, black screen lit by the sun gleaming in from the window to my right. Reflection of an image staring back at me.
White sheet, blue t-shirt, black pants melding with the dark wall behind. Lines ill-defined. The window a picture framed on the wall, source of light. Me a statue, still, reflecting.
This is what I do: I reflect. I have no choice in the matter. I am a mirror for you to see yourself in. You are my looking glass too. Life is a hall of mirrors, reflections everywhere; never the true image to be seen. This thumb, this pen, this hand: but an image that I’ve made to help make this reflection appear different from that. Distortions. The mirrors are curved, coloured, cracked, but they remain mirrors all the same.
Reflecting upon reflection; what else is there left to do?