Wayward thoughts - Images

The mirror in the room is not there. It has developed lines, tears, wrinkles, demarcations. It used to show me a splitting image. It was difficult to fathom which one was true. Mirrors, they say, don't lie. I'd wait for an answer and move away with a half-truth, a half-lie.

A while ago the mirror was taken off the wall; it had been glued to it. The wall behind had seen nothing of me. It was a fresh acquaintance. Blankly, it stared as I touched its harsh coat, the indentations. Now it has been smoothed. I stand against the light and a shadow falls. It is a larger image, darker, blurred, a silhouette. Incomplete. Another half-truth, a half-lie.

I touch my desert skin and leave the mirage to fool itself.

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