I float from room to room looking for a mirror that would show me my own reflection, that had the courage to show me the truth. I fail, the mirror fails.
I go out in the dark, the silence of the night engulfing my tired soul, my own hollow laugh lashing back at me like shrieks of widows mourning, wailing. And I stand there numb, allowing the breeze to encircle me yet not feeling its coolness against my skin. There seems to be nothing worth standing for outside anymore, not the wind nor the fragrance of the frangipani blooms. Once inside, I stand quietly once again not knowing where to go, what to do. Like a wax doll devoid of life, my motionless silhouette stays within the shadows for a long time, until I muster the courage to walk towards a large mirror again. And then I see it!
The pale face, dilated, watery eyes staring back at me with no more questions left in them. And in that haze I see so much yet nothing at all. I see the smoke rise, I hear the pigeons cooing away a rhythmic tune, I see the pages of a book fluttering by the wind, and I hear a poem. The poem!
It was there, all of it, yet so far from my reach. I tried placing my hand on the vision that appeared, the tattered yellow pages of that book; was that poem in one one of those pages? I wanted to run after each one of those flying yellow leaves of that book, looking for verses that might have my name, chasing after dreams, trying to capture the memories and place them safely deep within my heart; but they were scattered all over now. I see music notes escaping, words turning dull like they would if you place them in murky waters; I see shrouds of memories whirling away in dust of time; and I see the mirror then right in front of me hoping my reflection would be there. There was nothing; the shadow nor the faint remembrance of an image that was once me...
