Searching Is Not The Answer
I retract my eyes from its edges allowing sullied breath to sink into my lungs. I release this breath with an odd sense of curiosity as breath settles upon the mirror. Now, with breath upon this mirror, I watch, as it fades almost instantly. As if disdained upon my presence. Only to leave in an almost translucent outline upon the glass.
And again, my thoughts wander upon the condensation of my breath. And in watching it fade, I ponder, with intellectual eagerness , am I but not a breath from the universe, from God? Slowly fading upon the reaction of molecules and the designers final stroke of the brush.
Am I not but a reflection of what another has drawn, for what naturalism can create such perfection mixed with such disaster? Playing upon the good and bad like a tale of wondrous woes and delightful joys. They or him, who ever created me. Must have some intent on building a story upon my life. For wasting a breath would be sorely umpired to such a disturbing act.
In thinking these thoughts I find myself twisted in the reality of what really is. Is what I see in my reflection truly there? Or am I just a splatter breath upon a canvass left to fade into nothing? To become once again inhaled and absorb into the lungs of life. To be once again released; but as another.
I find myself to be constantly trivial to myself. For as I draw upon these thoughts. I look into my conscience, trying with much valor to pass my ego. But always, I become frozen, and well versed with impish desire as my eyes cannot look away. And in this seeking I find the fraud, the deception that always lingers like foul breath in a locked room.
Ignoring its presence but one would be rude to acknowledge its being. And in doing so, the stench only grows more foul. And as it grows in its foul odor. I start to wonder, is it me that ill's this breath?
Am I but the one carrying this nauseating smell? And further these thoughts carry me as I stare deeper into my reflection. As my eyes become keen to the wickedness I have done. Finding the pitted words that lead me to see the horns upon my own mirror.
Deeper I look, deeper I search. Never to find the answer I seek but falling to the putrid thoughts that bring me to tears. But have long since left me arid of any hope to cry.
In this mirror before me, I find myself corrupted in thought, corrupted in my own self. Do I permit ears to the wrong voices, or do I not feed the right ones well enough?
I am ever trivial to my own existence.
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