In order to become more comfortable with my writing, I will be publishing a creative piece every month. Each piece will be more recent than the previous one to reflect my growth. No part of these works have been edited, so brace yourselves for cringeworthy mistakes. This first piece, which I titled "Reflections," was written when I was fourteen for a prompt concerning the personification of an object. I wrote about a mirror experiencing an identity crisis.
Sunlight poured into the room, drowning everything in a golden haze. It illuminated everything it touched, from the shoes that dotted the floor to the dust bunnies that had crept under the bed. The light suddenly hit me, causing a bright, glowing shine to reflect from my cold, glass surface. It shown onto the sloppily made bed and a silver, Apple laptop covered in handwriting, including scribbles, doodles, quotes, and notes, as well as stickers and pictures of celebrities. The dresser was littered with nail polish, hair accessories, and other vanity items.
In the window, I saw my own reflection. My ancient, 450 year old frame had been repaired recently, the carved roses on the wood now perfect to the finest details and recognizable, the glossy polish causing a finished look to my once crudely cut, oval dark wood. The clear, shining, smooth, cold glass glows brilliantly in the sunlight that continues to flood the bedroom. Every object here, even the camera and laptop, have always envied me. It’s not shocking—I’m loved in an unconscious way because I’ll always be needed. Without me, it’d be like producing a movie without cameras, creating a song without lyrics, leaving a map blank. I boasted pride, power, and perfection, clearly superior to the rest.
Yet, despite the luxurious advantages of a life so seemingly crystal clear, I felt...lost. My life wasn’t close to crystal clear at all—it was foggy and mysterious, with adjustments that sent everything I’d once believed in crumbling and starting over. It was as if something within me couldn’t settle and ran into the deepest, darkest, jumping past every boundary and expecting to be found. How could a glowing, vital star be so dull and dead? I had become what I’d despised—a stereotype, given the same labels by everyone who laid eyes on me.
For years upon years, I’d be whomever stood in front of me and stared at with eyes that would soon reveal to me secrets and lies, tragedies and love stories, confessions and revenge. I was never untouched but molded into many shapes and forms like clay, although I appeared robust and puissant on the outside. Never would I be able to fly as freely as a dove, beautiful and uncontrolled. I’m a victim in a torture chamber, altered and destroyed until I could fit perfectly into the image I was set to reflect. Until I’m broken and crushed-literally and theoretically—I could never escape the endless cycle of people that caused a pandemonium that beat on me from my dark, wooden, oval frame to the cold, heartless glass. It was a delirium that vivaciously scratched and distorted my wood and polish while violently shattering my glass into smithereens. Would I ever truly discover the original artwork set for me? Or would I forever remain a canvas with a chaos of paintings constantly blending together?
It had been years of agonizing twists, for the better or worse. I’m an endless story with a pen doomed to write my chronicle forever. It’s been a long life, containing many reincarnations. I know the cold, dark, inevitable truth and I’m not afraid to face it. One day, maybe I’ll discover the ever changing thing inside of me. But today, I accept being icy, penetrating, and shape shifting. But today, I’m a sycophantic, lost, 450 year old mirror.
