Have you ever sat in front of a mirror and wondered what it must be like to be on the other side: looking at the world from the inside? Rather “twilight zone” if you ask me. However, really what would it be like? Would it be different? In addition, how do we know we aren’t already on the inside looking out? Think of it from the chicken or the egg perspective. “As I sat in my study, holding my quill in one hand and a crystal orb in the other; I wondered what my mirrored self was thinking as he stared back at me. Forever trapped inside an environment that never changes, and yet changes constantly with each movement of my hand. A skewed view to be certain and yet how is it that I am sure that is not my view that is indeed skewed?
Is the hand that reaches out seemingly touching my own fingertips feeling the warmth of my flesh or merely feeling the cold touch of glass? Does his views differ from mine, or tongue in cheek, do they mirror mine? How does he experience time? Does he age as I do? Or is this aging a reflection of him and in fact I am not aging at all?
He follows my every step; as long as I take the orb with me. This leaves me puzzled: what goes on when I am not in the room? This man, what is his name? Does he sleep? Does he experience the whole spectrum of human emotion, as do I? Where does he go when I am not in the room?
It is truly a mystery; what happens when the lights go out? The orb turns inky black and reflects nothing. Or is it the true nature of me that it is showing? Surely I am not the dark shadow that casts it’s pawl over my crystal orb?
I see books reflected on the orbs’ surface. I know that I am a lover of the arts, but is my reflection? Can he, does he appreciate the writing of Frost, Shakespeare and the scholars of long, long ago?
Is his flame eternal or not? If not what becomes of me should he expire before me, could it be that I would cease to exist? Would I become as the orb in the dark room; with out substance or form?
Oh, orb of crystal, what is thy nature? Are you merely here as an ornament, or are you here to draw my attention and suck me in? I wonder?”
Is the hand that reaches out seemingly touching my own fingertips feeling the warmth of my flesh or merely feeling the cold touch of glass? Does his views differ from mine, or tongue in cheek, do they mirror mine? How does he experience time? Does he age as I do? Or is this aging a reflection of him and in fact I am not aging at all?
He follows my every step; as long as I take the orb with me. This leaves me puzzled: what goes on when I am not in the room? This man, what is his name? Does he sleep? Does he experience the whole spectrum of human emotion, as do I? Where does he go when I am not in the room?
It is truly a mystery; what happens when the lights go out? The orb turns inky black and reflects nothing. Or is it the true nature of me that it is showing? Surely I am not the dark shadow that casts it’s pawl over my crystal orb?
I see books reflected on the orbs’ surface. I know that I am a lover of the arts, but is my reflection? Can he, does he appreciate the writing of Frost, Shakespeare and the scholars of long, long ago?
Is his flame eternal or not? If not what becomes of me should he expire before me, could it be that I would cease to exist? Would I become as the orb in the dark room; with out substance or form?
Oh, orb of crystal, what is thy nature? Are you merely here as an ornament, or are you here to draw my attention and suck me in? I wonder?”
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