Late night scribbles.
Well. It’s only ten o’clock in the evening, so I could hardly claim these to be scribbles written late at night. Maybe late in the evening, or early in the night, but late at night occurs somewhere between eleven o’clock and midnight.
Anyway, what I was supposed to write is this:
I have an imaginary friend.
Well, it’s more of a mirrored version of me, in another dimension, than a real friend.
We talk sometimes, when I happen to see my reflection, her, in a dark window, or in the bathroom mirror, or the one hanging in the hall.
Or rather, it’s more like I ask her questions, and never bother to listen to her answers. Quite selfish of me, I admit.
I should be too old to be imagining this sort of things. I should be cynical, as all adults are, and see the image in the mirror in a most physical way; rays of light reflected and re-reflected in angles and wavelengths.
But no matter how much I try, I can never really ignore the feeling that the girl, or rather young woman now, which peers back at me from the other side of the glass, is really real and really different from me, though alike as we are in appearances.
I know this, because whenever I feel beautiful, I keep seeing flaws in the features of the girl in the mirror, and whenever I feel un-pretty, she is most gorgeous.
Still, she is much wiser than I am and also much sadder than I am, and whenever I become as sad, she is still the most miserable.
She is tired. She is old. She has seen it all and all she ever wanted was a friend, not a spoiled brat who ignores her every try at making a relation. A loving relation I should think.
I suppose someone with as much melancholy must ache to have someone to love. To have someone to love her.
And I, as a truly selfish child keep on thinking only about myself, never even thinking twice about maybe being different for a change. For a chance.
She is angry with me. Maybe that’s why we are so distanced from each other nowadays. It is hard to feel her presence; she is only there because she must, but very reluctantly.
I can imagine the day she will be too fed up with, well, everything, and the image in the mirror will be void of any live being. It will just simply be a reflection of, or a window to, an empty room.
The question is: will I still be there when she isn’t? And also, when I’m not there, is she?
I feel tired. She looks determined.
A quarter to eleven. Still not late at night.
