“What is so perfect about perfection while perfection itself is a fake fiction? Common, look at you…!!!” he told his image in the mirror. The image looked twenty years elder than who he actually is, harmless and kind. Yet true to its kind it was born with a hunched backbone of helplessness too. It was just a deliberate reflection of his reality standing outside the mirror, sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter and sometimes a blend of both, always looking forward for its own liberation from the boundaries of the mirror.
He started gazing the mirror more closely. As he came closer the image followed the same too. The world in front of each of their eyes became wider and wider - clearer and clearer - as they both came closer and closer. Both had the same vision in front of their eyes with all the vibrant beauties of life dancing lavishly in a lustful manner tempting them to live – on quotes ‘mercilessly joyfully’.
He always criticised his image so cruelly for looking elder, poor and fake, never realising that the blame is actually reflecting on him. While the image kept mum, carelessly understanding his agony quietly with a strong belief in him and his possible capability of attaining that higher end of free mind and happiness. Truth lied silently watching the born brothers gazing at each other with two different mindsets. Only the truth realised that the reality talked less wisdom than his wise counterpart who thought and believed in the art of living in joy. The image knew that it is much young, richer and real. It kept faith in him and respected him, in spite of his misbehaviour and arrogance.
Days passed, months passed and years lead to decades. As a ritual he continued to be bad with his reflection while the reflection identified him with affection. He walked around for some seduction. He grew fake and fake as the the image grew real and real. It stood higher than him. And one fine day – No, on a not so fine day as the writer wish to call it – he punched so harshly on the nose of his reflection. The mirror turned red with the broken glasses poked in to the flesh on his fingers. Both he and his reflection did bleed RED in colour. The real and the fake equally shared the pain. They were just the same. Their worlds were the same. As they came nearer and nearer, the world became wider and wider- clearer and clearer. That led them come closer and closer. They kissed each other, towards the lustfully dancing beauties of life. The image whispered to him with a smile “What is not so perfect about perfection while perfection itself is partially an art of self affection..!!! Come, look at you.”