The levels of isolation

 The Guy I Lived With had another life. It was there, inside his computer, when he thought I did not see. He believed that I indeed did not see despite watching as he was not aware that it was not really his computer. It was his head. And he believed that I would not see what was in his head. Isolation always starts with a belief. 

 I got caught by the idea while sitting at my table. The house was quiet and these things in the air, like tiny pieces of a sand spread all around, started bringing images of places I have never been too and lives I have never lived yet. Monkey Seduction had attacked. As usually, all of a sudden.

 I write letters. To the people who meant, those in the life you come back to watch on an old picture printed out of a polaroid you don't have anymore. I write to them in my mind, cause that's the best way to say everything without a careful count of steps.

 Coming to the point, (as recently I hear a lot of moaning voices complaining about how much I roam around the subject without having actually any core of it) I went to Tate Modern. And following a creative writing guide this is probably the first fact I wrote here since the beginning of this blog.

 I need to add here that I usually go to Tate Modern once in a while. I like coming back there because of the memories left there for me. Everytime I come I can pick up some of them and take them back, or abandon them forever which never works for real. And- there is a mirror.

MIRROR

 No, not just any mirror. This mirror is meant to be an art- it's sticked to the canvas and pretends to be a painting, to be a real art mirroring the reality. Oh, what a curse for the artist- this mirror doesn't show reality. It's the only mirror in the world which shows you everything you've ever tried to hide. 

 I am always intrigued by things which are placed in such positions that you would rather see them leaving than coming inside. It's an easy trick to make the experience totally unexpected- people once decided to leave the place are usually unarmed, vulnerable like children attacked by a sudden memory of a last night's nightmare. This is how The Mirror attacks. Unexpected is it's weapon. To grab you, tear you apart and place you on the final level of isolation- integrity. Then you become the ultimate piece on a picture, just you. Painfully sole.



 There were many times when I was standing in front of this mirror. I called it then the mirror of sorrow as it was staring at me with it's eyes wide open with a silent agreement on the passing times. This mirror was a silent witness of the isolation in my head. It grabbed me many times like an old photo camara and I could swear I saw my life getting dry in the sun on freshly taken images. This mirror was running an archive of my life. A chronicle of images with no strength to rebel.
 Soon, I've given in. We started a co-operation, me and the mirror and I believed we can be confidantes, the siblings in arms. But it didn't keep the deal. It was still tearing me apart. Because it listened and it knew how to look at me, to make me squeek and squeeze all the juices of my still vibrant body out, to stay in front of it raw and unexpected. I was greatful it couldn't speak.

I was standing in front of the mirror. You didn't suspect anything, taking a look into the world of glass.
-Nice thing- said you smiling to your reflection.
I looked into it's eyes. It recognized me I knew it, this sadness could be only for me, on this summertime afternoon as a vow of silence. It will never tell anybody what did it see in my head, what images did it capture of these days-nights of my life. No one will ever know.

 You almost passed by saying something about coffee and I took one last look into my oldest enemy's eyes. I tried to be brave and pick up a fight, but then it was only me and the isolation within the frame. I tried to escape this final look, but once again, it was too late. The mirror had my face.