Source

Me. I am Me.  One person.  Among a couple of billions.  One.

Me. One? No.  More than one.  A lot. There’s one Me in the head of every single person or creature who has ever known of my existence.

A world of mirrors.  A reflection in every eye.  A distorted one.  One of them is distorted.  No, not just one.  I’m sure several of them are.  None are like each other.  They are all different.  Hundreds of them looking back at me.  Back at who?  At what? Me? Which me, again? Which is the right one? They are all different.

How can it be?  They are all me.  One version in each reflection.  A distortion caused by the surface.  Source.  Where is the original?  I can’t see it.  If it exists, how to tell?  I can see reflections.  Distorted reflections.  Reflections that come from a source.  I can’t see the source.  All the reflections are different.  I need a formula.  I need to factorise this.

I have too, a reflective surface.  A distorted one.  Can I see the originals? Can they see me? Every one of them reflect on me.  Hundreds of reflective bodies. How many are we? Billions.  A world of billions reflected.  An endless house of mirrors.

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3 thoughts on “Source

  1. As they say in the worlds of science fiction; parallel universes contain many possibilities and of course many versions of you 🙂 and plus the points of view of others give off the same vibe. Scary, I know 🙂

  2. …what if, and just if, people would step out of mirrors all over the city, mirror-people, what is left of that morning shudder in front of the abandon of lavatories, the sinking despair of an unshaven face, of unmascaraed eyes, that flawless reflection of early morning nakedness… so the mirror-morning-reflection people would slowly taking over the streets, the shops, the alleys, populating the city all over again of contradictories tajectories… and what if the original of that very mirror-people would go out of their way to stop their boss, their partners, their friends, to look straight at their most miserable morning self.. and the poor shivery reflections would sadly back off, deeply hurt, sliding miserably in dark corners, walking back to the bathroom frame where they originated..only they know that they had a gift for their creators, a bleeding shards-eyed hearth, flaming in their reflected hands, an hearth of true joy, who they were the secrets guardian of… and now nobody will know, as the mirror people bow their heads, reach out for the light switch in the bathroom, click.
    And here they are to this day, waiting…

    G.

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