The TLP Network

Sharing the Hate, Spreading the Pain: On Shattered Reflections

by on Mar.27, 2008, under Articles, Sharing the Hate

Staring down at a slightly larger pool of my own blood dripping from my left hand, I distinctly remember hearing a pop, or almost hearing one. It was the kind of pop, which brings about the sensation of smelling smoke. Immediately following that almost inaudible hiss, the third of four light bulbs hanging from a strip in the bathroom went out.

The filament must have blown I think to myself hunched over the basin affixed atop a beige marble countertop. The pain reels as I clutched my left hand with the right hand. Why bleed on good marble? I will have to get another bulb on my next trip out to the store along with a new mirror. Perhaps some new rugs as well, since there is glass strewn throughout the once powder blue, not silver, red, and powder blue rugs in the bathroom.

Smashing the mirror was the only way to get the voices to stop, those voices telling me or showing me a depraved sociopath schizophrenic attempting to look presentable to the outside world. A true sociopath does not care what the world thinks. Perhaps I just like feeling the sharp razor tearing away at my flesh. That is more the masochistic twinge of a sociopath.

“How handsome you look today,” my reflection taunted me revealing the fact that razor sharp comes with ten to fifteen nicks in the neck. “I do look handsome,” I replied to my reflection as I started to dab cotton balls in alcohol to stop the bleeding from a daily routine of shaving. “The crimson hue is very attractive,” the reflection continued. “Perhaps, I will wear red today so my clothes can match my skin,” I snap back at myself. It is so hard to win a battle of wits with your own reflection.

Your own reflection knows you better than you know yourself. It sees you from the inside out, and regurgitates that distortion as gospel. The reflection is very critical, very cold, and very unnerving. Your reflection comes from within as the sum of all your mistakes, your nightmares, and your failures. You cannot lie to your reflection, but your reflection can lie to you telling you exactly what you do not want to hear. It will even retell events of the past through the voice of those negative emotions.

Why does making yourself presentable to others involve so much precious time, and bring about so much pain? Why does one go through the same routine of making themselves presentable when they do not even go out? At least time moves fast when taking part in this routine of “getting ready.”

That routine is the part about tradition that always bothered me. I had to make myself presentable though. I was in my own company. If I cannot look good for myself, then whom could I look good for? If I did not make myself good enough for me, I would never let myself hear the end of it. Apparently, even as I tried, I would never hear the end of it either.

After one or two more snide remarks from my reflection, I simply stopped what I was doing. I stopped one task and started another task. That other task was to say, “Reflections lie,” and then smash the mirror soundly with my left hand. What felt good in one split second, became the angst of sorrow in the next.

At least I will not have to look at myself anymore, answer to myself anymore, or see myself anymore. A heavy weight is now lifted from my shoulders in that I will no longer shave, and no longer dress to impress. The voices do not stop, only now I know not where they come from.

Sincelery,
Leo

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