My mirror is merciful. It flatters my senses with a kind of visual imbalance. My body is prolonged till escaping my feverish gaze ,a sylphlike figure following the light of the candle which stumbles at the outrageous angles of the room. In front of my mirror I can appear windy and feathery, endowed with all the properties of air. The body that I see was once mine, totally mine, without guilt. I can shift in the dark constantly carrying sounds and smells from all the hidden corners of the horizon and hew the most stainless shapes on the most precipitous cliffs and copper blonde deserts skillfully.
My mirror is poisonous. It smothers the silence along with the incursion of fear. It gives voice to the monological confrontations between my double self, this image of image that I ignore. Only fleeting murmurs in a desperate move to invoke an absence. Sometimes ,while looking at me in the mirror ,within a distance of discretion, I can suspect my barriers, though I'm riddled like a forest fairy born aloft ,and I start talking to it ignoring its provocative stillness.