mirror, mirror

What you see in the mirror is not who’s actually there. You witness a phantom instead. An impostor. You as you were yesterday. You as you believe you still are today. You as you assume you must remain. The costume looks so familiar, its traditions well-established, that you let it stand in for The Real You. The reality in the magic mirror is only the story you’ve accepted as Truth. This is not a bad thing. It’s not a good thing. It’s nothing. But to you, as you stand there gazing at a character you keep playing, it’s everything. Or at least, it has to be something.

And then, somehow, you shatter the mirror. You see the pieces of your character broken apart, and you feel liberated. You are not bound to who you were, which is always who you think you are, who you think you have to be.

But you’re not an angsty teenager.

Go write something real. Write one true sentence already, dammit.

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