My reflection, at times, arches her lips as if to smile. This action only lasts a few seconds, yet it is a delight and a fright to behold it.
I have seen my reflection morph into that of a corpse-like figure. No bones showed. It was rather skin – canescent, dry, and old.
The other day, I saw my visage blend into that of a man. This male was pale and in what seemed to be his middle age. First, it was the white beard, but today, his eyebrows appeared. He does not feel as though a stranger to me, but I have always held the belief that I have been a woman in my incarnations.
When today’s session began, I worded the summoning of my true face. With still my same countenance, my eyes took the appearance of two pits of black. I blinked and trailed off a bit before continuing. Some features similar still to my current visage appeared – pieces of a man whom, to my mind, bears the resemblance of my father in his youth; but unlike him, this image sports a dark beard that encircles his face by the chin and under his lower lip. This man was bedighted in a rich blue tunic as though some elegant Middle Eastern tailoring.
Lastly, I was forced to change position. I had lost track of time, and my limbs had fallen asleep. With this change, a woman came to me. Her alabaster skin glowed in the shade erected by the backyard gazebo. Her eyes were undistinguishable, and her hair flowed as long raven waterfalls.
does your heart lie, my precious one? No poison coursed your veins when you
were unaware of the fount of truth. But now that the flowers have blossomed
diamond glow, doubt fills your being and you recoil from the same arms that
held you close for all these years. Confess, my dear. Where does your heart
lie? Denying makes it not less real. Look at me, lost one! See me for what I
am. Harden up and expand or die alive!
Oh, my precious one! Oh, precious he was… He surrendered to the Nightmare White without deigning to fight and died alive for all his life, so that when Lord Death sent his envoy to collect the inhabitant of the flesh, the emissary found naught but the dimmed embers of my friend’s soul. Thus, I wept for three nights and three days, and on the following day, I rose enraged above my tears. Basileus had shattered himself, his demise out of his own volition. Why would I cry for one who died, and died not bright? I gave him the tools to survive, and he tossed them aside.