I fucking hate mirrors. They are but elaborate and constant reminders that I was born to self destruct, to self disrupt.
Drenched in waters that fail to cleanse me from my consciously chosen sins, I gaze upon a face I can hardly recognize, reflected in the steamy bathroom mirror. I do not take a peek, I don not briefly look. I gaze in childish aspiration that I might feel, even for a moment in time, less surreal.
But fuck mirrors! [But-Fuck! *Sigh*]. They do not lie, they do not obscure the truth with series of mistruths and by the Godless sky, I loathe how cruel they can be.
I violently sever the sentence and in dismay, I realize the fact that I just yelled my reoccurring thought out loud; an incarnation of the unreal, I have become.
I could swear that, for a split second, my old, unshaven, malnourished and quite bored face smirked slyly.
I am my betrayer, decimation, I am.
I am Jack’s broken mask, a ronin, a walrus.
Where is the sodding escape button or the exit door?