Light is reflected and pushed forward in time. We blink. An image is seen. Behind the looking glass we stare with longing at the image of ourselves we long to see, and may not yet be. In love we become each other's mirror. We force each other to face the things we lack by focusing on the same traits in our others. Human beings are not intrinsically healthy. We strive for goodness, cleanness, well being but we are ragers. Our baser instincts are sharp and intelligent. We grab at straws, build intricate defense strategies and when things get extremely difficult we huff, and puff, and blow down anything that seems to be in our way.
Mirrors take on different hues once they are broken. The two major halves are splintered by reflection. One turns inward and seeks to repair the damage by strengthening it's foundation. The other side vacillates. It dives into the experience of being separate and what else can pass before it's unshielded eye. In between the bed of solitude and the bed of plenty is a communication. The heart stirrings still pluck and pulse, unsevered but marred. The experience of one does not outweigh the many. Hungers turn the mind way spinning. The mirror ball reflects and refracts each attempt and deliverance. Each crack forms the line like a map. The many begin to form a territory that seems impossible to to come back from. The island of lost boys and men has a scent and appeal of it's own. It tempts with the available and new. It needs to be charmed and tricked and experimented with.
The other half stays true. It does it's dailies and flexes it's mind muscles full of ideas and support. It believes that giving and loving and being are enough to show itself deserving of connection. It's map is full with purpose and it's one fixed point invites the other into it. It calls. It smiles with stillness and says, "Join me..." Prismatic is the world of the lovers. There must always be two. There must always be a communion. There must always be a joining. Between them is a promise made like a map. It passes the outer skin and sits deep in wait. It cycles the blood and lays it's seeds through their bodies.
Human beings are intrinsically complicated. The simplest motion of extending the hand, leaning in for a kiss, making declarations becomes a universe of questions. Within that universe lies two sides of a broken mirror. Each side makes itself a map. A landscape of experiences to strengthen the soul or self in seperation. A new chip in the surface leads the breath to sigh with relief or tighten in anxiety.
The lovers aren't intrinsically easy to make out. There are always two. There is always a communion of opposites. There is always a joining. Between them there a promises. Deeper beneath them in the blood is the ability to betray. The blood is quick. It must keep flowing and moving. As these cells regenerate their own map the conflicts are created right beneath the surface. The eyes stare out into the looking glass with longing. Longing to see the future we desire but we may never truly have. The solitary imaginer walks himself across the connection lines with nothing more in his hands than the promises between them.