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Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

On the other side of the mirror

An unknown dimension in which black color diffract with all shades of darkness, and enter inside, that scene greeted him first. Dark spots in blue pupils from looking too long into a double-sided mirror spilled over his cheeks. The skin on his lips fluttered, cracking each capillary in his eyes, giving the unusual contrast of black and gray as they flow down his collarbone to his knee. A torrent created where he collapsed, submerging his suspicions of a grandiose existence in a world that no longer belonged to him, a world he held in his fist. Now, he lowered his arms next to his body, levitating in the meaningless space he shared with the person on the other side of the mirror. The distorted contours of the face and the severed fingers, in vain, scratching the surface of the unbreakable glass in front, a scream not heard echoes in an invisible reflection. He sees contours, so vague and blurry, but he can’t reach his face. The eyes gulp down any glare that appears appropriately when the mirror reflects it from its surface. But the eyes are convex, adapting to the heartbeat, losing the vision, caused by self-destruction. What colors are now the reflections and shadows in them? The palette of them dripping from the eye cavities bleeding blue and black with a mixture of dark red. How can common sense be dealt with if the mind has long since lost its way to the invincible power of the subconscious? Deception in the complete delusion of what the mirror wants to show him. That inverted character of an unbelievable depiction of reality at a crucial moment. A fallen figure of dysfunctional existence in a perfectly understandable context of finding oneself on the other side of the mirror. And it breaks thin skin, collecting dirt from the soul, ashen, torn and empty. He looks away and closes his eyes, not to lose his glare on the wall, hits the glass with his fists, not knowing for a while, but it doesn’t break. He punches with a power that he doesn’t even have but doesn’t give up. He searches for himself. He looks for that elusive character who convinces him that he still exists there somewhere. He lets out a cry but yet can’t hear it. Fear causes him to sink his nails inside his body and destroy any wrong feeling that has made him lose himself by losing his mind at the same time, leaving where he’s easily accessible to what’s killing him now. And his breath disappears, he trembles in the fever of his defeats, trembles, and disappears as he resurfaces where no one can see him. Half-conscious and half-dead, no more distinguishing between light and darkness, he screams out loud, and lies in the murky torrent of his remains, swallowing the dust, struggling to get up. But he slides, stumbles and breaks. He glances over at the dirty, scratched mirror to take another look at himself. The view weighs in fear, rolls through the untouched surface and stops, one last look, incomprehensible and pale. He looks at a picture of his skeleton in a puddle of a palette of all colors of emotion drops, and finally, he gives up searching. What more can he do to find himself? He doesn’t exist. He’s gone. It’s just an ordinary, straight mirror, and no one else sees him on the other side, does it? Lying in his surrender, motionless and seemingly lifeless, he opened his eyes once more, one last time, and touched the mirror with his bloody fingers. It broke and covered him with pieces of glass, and on the other side of it, there was him, lying on the floor, same skeleton, same pain, same eyes. But with a different look, looking at his reflection, giving him a weak hand to stand up, telling him he would be found. But only when he survives the former self.

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