Cold Mirror

My mirror has gone cold. Cold and stark.
I leave my body away from my reflections..
I was born with it and I will die with it. But do I want it? Did someone ever ask me whether I want it? Do I want to manifest myself in a tangibility that only breeds discontent and disassociation?
Its not an empty box of course…but I see it only as a lump. Of muscles and flesh and bones. Of words, thoughts, images and sounds and of a belief that it carries a life in moments and memories. But it’s only a belief.
Blood, people, voices, living, dreaming...seeping into the pores..frozen along the ridges of your scars.
Fleeting. Drifting. Floating.

My mirror is cold.
It says nothing. Nothing of me in my face. Nothing of time. Nothing of illness. Nothing of anything. No motion. No change. Am I caught in a stasis? Have I stopped?
I chopped off my hair some months back...I look at it now and see it as a sub-consciously sought reminder of a survival. Survived? Have I survived?
And there I end...if I were the mirror, there would be no more of me.
I die.
The body turns cold.
My mirror is already cold. Corpses. The two of us.

Don't tell me that its just a surface that captures enough light to reflect back the object or image placed before it. Does it reflect? Or does it recreate? And don't say that its inanimate and only meant to give a faithful picture of something else.
I stand and stare, wishing some grey warmth back into this full mirror. Nothing.
And that nothing itself is a slaughter.
Of what you ask? Funny...I thought you live through a little bit of that yourself every morning.
You....you are getting slaughtered.

My mirror is cold and its cold nothingness is an vortex of mute violence.
It screams across explanatory physics.
It disrupts my chaos.
It pushes me deeper into my own muck.
It watches me flail around helplessly.
It's pleasures are peculiar and cruel.
Its cold.
I can see the voices in my head standing a little behind my reflection in the mirror. A moment of mocking silence and then they begin. Their mouths move in chaos. They push and they shove each other. They live independent of me...I escape in sight...I cannot hear their words.
I read their words but I don't see the lies they tell and the lies I weave with them.
I see the weaver but I cannot discern the pattern. There is a contradiction in pattern for it arises out of confusion and deception. Its deception to trace a pattern and essentialize it for the sake of reason. What reason do I have to reduce everything to its bare essence? Who am I? What am I doing? What is my purpose? My essence?
Questions clash in futility and the mirror lives a mute life. Cold. Cold. Cold.

Questions in dreams and the dream of a question. Am I a dreamer? A dreamer not of night dreams in sleep..sleep of a diluted yellow...but a dreamer of the day?
I see nothing of my dreams here. I see no memory of them.
I saw a face once in my dream...patched together with rough glue like a jigsaw puzzle. My hands felt sticky then. And you, my dear were the puzzle...
A man walks to and fro between two walls in another dream. Brick to brick..length to length the walls are identical. Life goes on beyond them....but the man is caught inside that walled vacuum. He doesn't know from which wall he started walking first. Each wall is an alternate of hope and despair. His walking is futile. Why doesn't he just sit? He is futile....
I see nothing of these dreams in the realities of my cold mirror. Yet I know they are there. Dreams are never gone are they? They float like bits of vomit that did not get totally washed away with the flush....in dirty circles of stench and regret they spin... round and round they spin in that tiny little square world of water.
It is...it was, just a dream. A bad dream.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Repeat these words until you know them even before you dream.
But who taught you the difference between the dream and reality? Your mother? did she run and hush you in the dark and tell you its just a dream?
Dissolve.
Dissolve that line between dream and reality.
Think.
Think in continuity. Perceive and feel in continuity. A dream and a reality woven into each other...indistinct and inseparable. Indifferent too, to our sad attempts at perverse rationalization.

Where was I? How did I think I would end this?
"Mirror mirror on the wall
How do I end this all?"