Why do certain images feel deceptively genuine, while the truth often feels illusory? Why is it that at one time or another everything that should be perceptively clear has the opportunity to become vague in its entirety? Even the quietest whisperings have the power to pose vast changes to a being’s own self. Of the infinite associations, why are so many potent to all of what individuals concern themselves with? Moral relativity conceals a shard with which to indelibly etch. Is an affirmation crucial to one’s array? And is perception more prevailing over fragmentation?

The belief that perspectives prove more compelling than paragons is as unmasked as a veiled mirror, nevertheless, in encounters that I, myself, have come to know as absolute only one fractured moment challenged mores.

A portrait of some body, unknown, gazed back at my figure through the camaraderie of resemblance. Through the discernment of the inattentive, our likeness was unvanquished. Although, in each of our realities we proved to be obverted. 

Beads of condensation rolled off the looking glass as I canted it before me. The lone aggressor encircled my inferiorities, contemplating a reflection, a remnant of mortality. Impressions surfaced as the grooved pattern of my fingertip scrawled my weaknesses onto the erroneously unambiguous image before me. The arrogance of others clouded the judgment of what I equated myself to. Every invalid flaw considered by people, every disgrace, was forced upon my idiosyncratic mind. Every imperfection I had made with my own ostentatious displays only truly conformed to ideas molded in facetious minds who irresponsibly forced their outlooks into the mass consciousness. Every one of my short-comings mapped out before me in a haze on my mirrored image. 

Slowly, the immoral zephyr became diluted by my own sense of irreproachableness as the reflection turned indistinguishable and a quiet acuity inspired my unconscious mind with tenacity. Perhaps, a vision voiced altered aims of benevolence. Or perhaps, parched lips murmured sublimity to my dazed portrait as I hesitated in my own meditations. Each ludicrous assumption dispersed like the exhalation of breath. Each inane definition of ideality lessened from my inner microcosm. Each unattainable inculcation pressed upon me, slowly, vanished as I understood with disbelief.  In a sense, I grasped what I had become; I had become inhuman. However, not by any prevalent conception of the word. I had become benign, serene, free of envy; contrary to human essence.

The imagined mirage of my reflected past image faded into the stifling deluge as I took sight of the cracked mirror in my hands, but now my reflection existed like a kaleidoscope. The kaleidoscope of my own individuality rested in my grasp while a society of abominable entities overlooked the reality that innermost cognizance is not ponderings of utter absurdity. The fabrication of impeccability is inconceivable.