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What am I doing here?
Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I stepped in here.
I'm at an abandoned mirror shop from the 1800's. Someplace I wouldn't have dreamed of visiting, but have been a regular visitor for seven years now.
Some of the smaller mirrors are covered by a piece of white cloth but they still manage to give off that eerie vibe. Then there stands a very huge, almost majestic mirror in the center of the room, covered by a maroon velvet.
The smooth cloth manages to hide its reflective part, but the intricate carvings of gold on the border peek through it; almost as if they're trying to lure me in to take a look at the mirror.
The longer I look at it, the more unsteady my breathing becomes.
My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm.
Tick.
The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to settle.
Tick.
I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters. Once and for all.
Tick.
My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang at my side.
It's fine. I can do this.
Breathe.
You're in control.
My soothing words of affirmation crack as the scene around me comes back into focus.
This place, filled with broken mirrors that remind me of my own doom and yet, I strive to be here. Everyday.
I see both peace and horror in these mirrors.
I take a step in as a few shards of glass crack beneath my feet and I clutch on my bag tightly. I avert my eyes to one of the mirrors on my left. And there I stand, pretending, smiling. Being.
Being; yet non-existent.
Seeing peace in these reflective pieces means I have to see that shadow too. Something I'd rather kill myself before seeing. But I don't, because I promised someone life.
I'm not sure I can keep that promise up any longer.
In my 26 years of life, I have never ever felt the joy of living.
What even is life? It's s just this endless cycle of waking up, going through the motions, scribbling in my sketchbook and collapsing into bed, only to repeat it all the next day?
