Writing is just talking on paper with an audience of one. I love to talk to people – to suss out my thoughts through sharing and comparing with another. To get real feedback—the smile, the nod or the frown and response, but still engaging, thinking, considering. But writing—the echo of the blank white page back at me has a hollow and mocking tone whose gaze is an unblinking sort of self-reflective smirk. This mirror seems tinny and distorted—like the distressed mirrors or actual old ones you see in western movies. Rust runs down it, light bends in strange distorted ways. The reflection isn’t pretty. It’s not true. It’s my worst self— knocking down every thought as quickly as it comes.
It’s time to break the mirror.
It’s time to break the mirror.