Sunday, August 8, 2010

The First Victims of Confusion Are Usually Those Who Train Specifically For Defenestration


"Bubba bubba bubba? What?" I smile wickedly, at my reflection.

"I don't want to get thrown out of a window," it says, sadly. "At least not at ... that kind of height."

I could understand its fear. We were atop a very high construction, beyond fathoms of Escher, vertically. N00bs had written, once, about some 'Tower of Babel' -- well, let me tell you, those n00bs? They were actual newbies. Never ask a mad man how high he can actually get. Those alone are terms for automatic defenestration.

"You're a sicko," says my reflection in the mirror. "Deriving little pleasures of imagery from flinging your own body straight out of windows."

The night has a very bluish-orangey, early morning twist upon its sky, and I for one, am quite sick of this prattling drone. "You don't know anything, man. You don't see what I see."

"That is a terrible thing to say to your reflection," it says. "Do you think I don't constantly see you? That no matter where you look -- no matter whose eyes you look into, it is not always the same stupid picture?"

He mumbled something about how it obviously would be the same picture, given the space-time parameters, and I confirmed his mumblings. I then even asked him if he had anything else to say.

In the room, the air had gotten very thin. Was I in a personal submarine, or some kind of space exploration programme? Or was he? I didn't know anymore. Didn't know from head nor tail, nor whether closing my eyes for just a little bit ... would terminate this stream of consciousness.

"So it is true," mocked the reflection. "You are totally self-obsessed. When you told her you were 'not cheating' you were so playing poker, weren't you? You were totally cheating on her, and when she shed her full tears -- even as her heart bled before your very person -- you were just standing there, concerned only about yourself."

It is a desolate plain world, with icy blue curves and occasionally violet sparks cosining and tangentially flashing about, in cadence with that old, old sound signature. That drum beat. The sound of one heart breaking.

"If there is going to be just one heart breaking," I swallow, "let it be my little heart." I take the nugget from my chest, (it sparkles), and hand it over to the mirror. The reflection takes it with great, great care.

Then I only get to watch in horror as it simply flings it out the window.

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