Have you ever wondered what in this world is truly real? Sometimes, you may find yourself laying in bed, limbs splattered everywhere on the mattresses as you lose yourself in your own thoughts. What are coincidences, really? Things that merely happen because of the moves you made a moment ago? Things that go perfectly in your favor 'just because?'. Conspiracy is always frowned upon, labeled as pure thoughts of the mentally unwell.
Tell me, do you feel real? Do you feel like the alleyway you walk on every single day is real? The exact same routine you follow? Do your conversations ever feel any different? As each day runs into a loop, are we just enslaved to this world's will?
I still remember the face of my sister. Blurry, like an old memory i buried in the back of my mind. Dare i say that is what it was? Unfortunately, i cannot remember how much time has passed.
My sister, Lise, has always been someone who put feelings above logical thinking. Though she suffered from the mental agony of strong emotions that often rendered her unable to follow her desires, she had always been a pure soul to me.
Lise would often cry, asking me if i felt like she was a bad person. If she was some sort of demon that needed to die. 'My mind is a prison' she'd repeat everytime she broke down in the middle of the night.
I always held her, gently caressing her face as our bodies pressed tightly against each other while i whispered reassuring words in her ear.
'You're purer than a field of flowers, Lise.'
'The world is to blame, not you.'
'It was never your fault. You're just too caring for the cruelty of them all.'
Every night, i would find Lise inside the living room, drawing peacefully on the table. I liked to ask her about the meanings of her art, to which she'd sometimes offer fascinating explanations, while other times simply shake her head and confess that she did not know.
Once she was done, i'd pick her up and carry her to our bedroom, tucking her into bed. I then would sit down next to her, pulling the book i always prepared beforehand from the nightstand onto my lap, and i'd read her until she fell asleep.
'A beautiful loop of two souls dreaming of peace.'
Looking at Lise was like walking into a house of mirrors. You'd search and search, yet on every corner the only thing you'd see is a reflection of yourself. But reflections aren't truly you, are they? They look exactly like you, but of course, they are just mirrors. Pieces of glass. Objects lacking any kind of sentience. Everywhere you turn, you see yourself. And still, you don't see yourself anywhere at all.
Lise was a shattered mirror i gazed into. A broken, distorted version of myself. She felt like me, but it was clear we were different despite how much i saw myself in her.
