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Self Portrait in a Cracked Glass
Feb. 24th, 2010 01:53 amA cat that needs no introduction nevertheless demands one -- he is greedy. He thinks rather too much of himself. His steps are quick and purposeful, his movements filled with grace and poise. His reflection enthralls him; binds him -- he is drawn to it. Tied solely to self. Unable to look away, blind to the passing of the others, the aliens. He takes pen in hand and draws his reflection a thousand times.
A raven caws softly. It sees and it knows and it understands. Ten times better to know than to see. A hundred times better to understand than to know. It is perched in a tree; the mirror is too far to see clearly; yet, the raven does not fly nearer. Its reflection saddens it. It reminds it of things, of places, of people. It sees people too, with the same sad eyes -- looks at them and through them. Records their stories. Seeks to understand. Yet does not act.
A shadow waits. Silent. Wordless knowing. The play of light on the tranquil pool as the ripples play across its surface, casting rainbows on the rock face. The sky above, the orange of the streetlights on the slowly descending snowflakes. The howling of the wind in the mountains, in the heights; far beyond everything.
I stare deeply into the cracked mirror, but I then I turn away. It and I are one and the same, I suppose. It hardly matters. I have never cared a great deal about fitting in.
I want to transcend.
A raven caws softly. It sees and it knows and it understands. Ten times better to know than to see. A hundred times better to understand than to know. It is perched in a tree; the mirror is too far to see clearly; yet, the raven does not fly nearer. Its reflection saddens it. It reminds it of things, of places, of people. It sees people too, with the same sad eyes -- looks at them and through them. Records their stories. Seeks to understand. Yet does not act.
A shadow waits. Silent. Wordless knowing. The play of light on the tranquil pool as the ripples play across its surface, casting rainbows on the rock face. The sky above, the orange of the streetlights on the slowly descending snowflakes. The howling of the wind in the mountains, in the heights; far beyond everything.
I stare deeply into the cracked mirror, but I then I turn away. It and I are one and the same, I suppose. It hardly matters. I have never cared a great deal about fitting in.
I want to transcend.
