Reflected Eyes Upon Painted Glass
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I quite often find myself staring at clouded eyes reflected upon me, through painted glass laid upon the wall. I wonder who this wide eyed wanderer might be, full of nostalgia, her eyes written in hate and fear. Looking past the weathered eyes are memories, events, people, places, and emotions that have erected the body facing me through the painted glass. A body I'm not all too proud of most days, but nonetheless mine. It's as if the eyes, underneath the dark folds manipulated by late nights and tears, accompanied by lips that have loved, and a tongue that once sang songs of salvation, are trying to fool me into thinking that this person staring back at me is the person that I will be forever, and there is no escape; I am encased in the glass. But I know this is not true. Yesterday when I looked into the glass there was a different girl, accompanied by a different story. Last week she was about an inch shorter and her face less weathered. Four years ago she was smiling and enamored with a boy. Tomorrow she might be crying again. And years from now, there may not be a reflection anymore. What I do know is that these images I have seen and will see are all me, they will always be me. Everchanging, always moving, emotional, loving, fearful. Life takes me by the hand and leads me astray, but I will always find my way back to this mirror, so that I can look into these sad eyes and remember.
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