As you walk out of the very small room, you see a mirror, framed in river stones, calling out at you to have a look. And when you look into that mirror, which is nothing more than the reflection of your life, you see the brutalities you've inflicted and the violences you've committed.
Something new, you search not to deny, because despite the dust covering that mirror, you can still see the traces of what has happened. You do not seek excuses, there are none. Or reasons, do they matter? Or even redemption, you're not there yet. You take a deep breath and exhale, hard, sending a cloud of sparkling dust flying into the air. And as it settles you see, are relieved to see, the imprint of softness in the brutality and sweetness in the violence.
Nothing, despite your attempts to prove the contrary, will ever be exactly and only what it is. You receive it as the blessing, the kiss it is: there is no category for this.
7 comments:
when you stare at your own reflection in that dusty mirror (the fairest one of all!), the image staring back is as alienated from the self every bit as much as words that are spoken or written. they might capture the 'I', but rarely the 'Me'. and which is the more violent?
cbw
CBW - The river stone mirror reflects the life, not the one in it, mercifully. The most violent? The jump between the two.
yes, i agree. the 'I' is the life; the 'Me' is the person in it. more often than not, in my miserable opinion, there is considerable disjunction between the two. the causes of such disjunction can be many and varied. but this is getting dangerously close tortm sociological-speak so... [spit]
sorry, forgot the cbw :o)
I would've known anyway.
Metaphysics and coffee...the morning ritual.
Lorraine - I'm the cream for your coffee.
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