Felt rather lonely as I lay in bed and listened to a playlist that consisted of nearly 250 songs, most of which I had never bothered to hear. The blue light from the headset kept flickering in the darkness. The alternation between the flickering blue lights and my eye lids fell in perfect harmony like a hymn and a harp. As the light kept reflecting off the mirror, I stared blankly at the mirror that my eyes directly fell upon. It was interesting to note that I felt scared, thinking of a white saree clad spirit of a woman with open hair – the classic Indian Ghost.
The entire situation was comic in the sense that most tragedies have something to laugh about. My mind was still running to analyze things I can simply let go. But, that I can’t. Perhaps that’s what makes me so moderate in conduct and so extreme in thought.
The Ghost is Me, trying to figure why I keep trying to figure out who she is when she doesn’t exist. The tears pour down my eyes, both of them simultaneously; the fingers desperate to capture what the nerves feel. I approach the mirror and look at myself hoping the next day I get noticed by someone famous and become a movie star, or an actress whose performances get applauded by critics world over.
A life I would never want to live but hoping that I could escape the current scene or perhaps forget it in the frenzy. The tears still rolling down and the pace accelerated – the thoughts of a future that could never exist haunt. The song changes; the headset echoes with “Love Me Tender” cover Norah Jones, the nerves sway to the rhythm of the low tempo, the tears slowing down, the choke easing itself up.
The mirror in the tube light that filled the orange and yellow walls of this cluttered room reflected the chaos the life was getting out of. Things hanging on the fine polish of a smooth surface that would rarely be cleaned – expensive bags, inexpensive necklaces, more jewelry, a floor that could barely be recognized layered with clothes, bag and things I kicked off my bed the previous night to stretch the legs while sleeping all seemed as much a part of the mirror as I did.
What was the point of all this? Perhaps, only that I could feel – feel a sharp piercing pain, a helplessness under the norms of something I didn’t understand, something I was trying to make the most of, and yet felt no conviction for, fighting to understand if only I could make the most of what I had but incapacitated with the bonds I had to glue to my consciousness.
Maybe, I didn’t use the words right, maybe I confused everything else, maybe I complicated it all when it could have been plain simple but it’s not. Some things aren’t meant to be, and its best that they are left at that – best for whom? – a vague question with a far vague answer.
2 Replies to “The Mirror and I”
Nice one 🙂
Thank you Reshma. You have a nice blog yourself.