Mirror

When I look in my mirror,
I do not see a face full of blemishes.

No face exists in the iris of the eye in my head who receives the supposed light of humanity through this godly eye.

What is reflected, is the transparent empathy resonating from every office building, from every graveyard and every battlefield.

What is reflected, is the image of an irrelevant being whose existence is but a millisecond in the vastness of everything; whose senses act as a holed box in some mythical realm: providing tiny insights into the environment it is contained in, but confining the viewer to perception through incomplete eyes.

What is reflected, is years of evolutionary progress and death and survival, trillions of experiences and feelings, love and hate, sights never to be seen again and noises which never existed.

There stands a pitiful sight: one single brick in an un-fathomly gigantic bridge, destined to be demolished, and yet still derives significance from its existence in this doomed structure.

When I look into my mirror, there is an illogical narcissism staring me in the face, etched by nature in the eyes I stare at - my own.