On the floor, all around, lay pieces of a shattered mirror, an image of myself from years past. Hopes, dreams, wishes, aspirations, all potential, blown to smithereens. They’ve been lying there, collecting dust. No one passes by, no one notices a fragmented, hidden self.
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Observe. That is all I do. Watch the passersby from a distance, paying no heed to the once sparkling looking glass. Now the edges are eroded, the silver lining tarnished, and only a thick layer of dust is reflected.
Part of me wants to fix the image, bring it back to its former glory, but a memory of being reckless stops me. A self-centered monster, tactless, vile and dumb, everyone worshipped her. They wanted to be like her, and she loved them for it. But then one day she realized she was unlovable, and burst into pieces, fragile and defeated.
Since then the self lays dormant, self-effacing and without clear purpose.
"Soul of my soul of the soul of a hundred universes,
be water in this now-river, so jasmine flowers
will lift on the brim, and someone far off
can notice the flower-colors and know
there's water here."