The thing with mirrors is that they always want to tell the truth where we what is lies, or at least a little fibs, some wrinkles smoothed, hair now a color the mirror is more than capable of reflecting, but mirrors don’t bend to our wishes, and when they do, at carnivals mostly, the result varies between horror and hilarity.
You believe this is how, and where, it begins, but that is only your conception of it. You believe the mirror shows your face each morning, but it is merely polished glass, and you mind sees what it perceives to be you in the glass, while the glass is empty. It has no real beginning, at least not one that you or I can hope to identify, it has always been and it will never be, but we will perceive it to be as it has been, perceive it to have begun at some point in time, but time is also a perception, a way we can try to define our perceptions. You may well doubt all of this, but know that doubt is the beginning of understanding, so you have begun to walk along the way, which is where you are and have always been, if you can only conceive of it that way.
Across the river running limpid as mercury the sky is gun-metal gray and many stand in the windows of their small apartments and stare at buildings sitting like mausolea. On this side of the river running limpid as mercury the sky is gun-metal gray and many stand in the windows of their small apartments and stare at buildings sitting like mausolea. Tomorrow across the river the sky will be blue and a cold sun will shine and the river will swallow its reflection. Tomorrow on this side of the river the sky will be blue and a cold sun will shine and the river will swallow its reflection.
In this moment there is and can be no other. And when it is gone it never existed much as the next will never exist. So it is with us, a reflection of the ripple of the long sunk stone now nestling the bottom of the pond.
As you stare into the mirror it is your reflection you believe that you clearly see. As the face in the mirror stares at you, it is its face it believes that it sees reflected. There is one face and there are a thousand faces.
A foolish man sits at the edge of the pond, his feet perfectly still in the water. He stares into the mirrored surface and sees a fool, smiles as a ginkgo leaf floats like a sail on a morning breeze onto the pool, ripples radiate out, touching his toes and he smiles, and the fool lying beneath smiles.
A foolish man stands in the road, staring into the pavement, transfixed. He stares into the silvered sheen left by a morning rain and sees a man of substance in fine clothes, and man servants awaiting a command, and he smiles, and walks on with the man of substance on a road with no end leading nowhere.