Mirrormirror

You wake up.  The ceiling above your bed sees itself in you, see's all the selves it's ever been in you.  Depending on how much you like those reflections you've cast, you leave home quick or slow or not at all.

It's morning, so this day has never seen itself in you before; there's potential there, at least.  You seek out good things you can tell the day about itself: "Why look, I've finally stood up to my boss!", or "You're the first one I've worked out with in forever.  Good job!", and so on; still, the day isn't the only one looking, and you'll have plenty of old reflections to contend with if you want to make it feel impressive.

People on the street are no help, strangers to themselves that they are, but maybe you make someone feel friendly or otherwise good about themselves.  Either way you eventually find a familiar environment, school or work or whatever, where you pass everyone's day.  The girls try to see how attractive they are, and mostly you oblige them; sometimes because they like themselves, but mostly just because they should; the boys look for how cool they are, and all you can do is your best impression of whatever that might mean.  You're the place, whatever it is the place demands of itself; an endless line of strangers, with endless potential for casting creative reflections, is your only relief.

The day begins getting used to itself, and you to it, so the last thing you want to do is go back to the apartment that knows you so well; a quick stop for supplies is hard enough.  Then, you wander.

Now it's you who get's to be the stranger, and the world your mirror; finally you can BE, not just reflect the being.  No one asking you to treat them like they want to be, striking obvious poses; no walls caging you into monotonous scenes of who you've been between them.  Just wind, and trees, and water; all swirling and flowing through each other, all changing and growing and moving.  All being your perfect self, the self no one and nothing can ask to be perfect because you won't sit still long enough for them to pin you down and take your measure.  The self that can be anything, not just an endless series of boring expectations.

But unless wandering is your profession, sooner or later your apartment beckons.  You step willingly past the bars, close and lock the door yourself; because change, sublime, beautiful, thrilling change, is scary; being anybody is a big responsibility, though one you'll only ever have to yourself.  So you settle for staring down the walls, making them see you for once, because maybe afterwards they'll a little different; bolder, perhaps, stronger or wiser.  "That's good," you think, "that's who I'll show them.  They'll believe that."