Rough Draft.
Doppleganger
The room was lit as if in a dream. He could see everything around him, the sink below, the door behind, the mirror in front of him containing his reflection and the light bulb hanging over his head which remained dead to the world. Still, he could see. He could see himself in the mirror looking back at him. It was peculiar. Spots of flung toothpaste clung to the bottom of the mirror, strangely doubled on top of each other and they were lit, just like stars. These stars did not sparkle, but they did shine.
In the mirror, just as with the stars, there are two of him. One on each side of the mirror. And they shine too. Looking into the face in front of him, he sees dazzling white eyes surrounding enormous black suns. And in their darkness, they too shine. Gazes locked the worlds dissolves. No longer is there a sink below, a door behind or a mirror between. There is only this encounter. Eye locked on eye. Black sun to black sun. Shine to shine.
Intriguing. Startling, he thinks. One shape, one being mystified by the other. Movements equaled. Bodies doppleganged. A sense of equal curiosity rises out from each, so curious of the other. A hand. Yes, a hand moves towards the other ever so tenuous. He can feel the movement in his arm, his shoulder as he reaches toward the other. A sensation so light that it feels like no movement at all, perpetually caught in an eternity between willed movement and broken time. And he wonders if it will end, afraid of what that touch might mean. Will he feel warm flesh on warm flesh? Or will their hands pass through each other and continue into some unfelt and unseen realm? Or will it all crack and rumble away? The universe shattered by the joining of the two others, pressing into some unfathomable path wherein individuality, identity and duality are not comprehended, not conceived.
Slowly. Ever. So. Slowly. The hands continue covering the span, the stars still shining between them. Eyes embraced, eager and attentive but tempered by a fear. Conflicted, he steals his will and thrusts his hand toward the other who reacts with equal fervor. And their open hands touch. A moment of vertigo sweeps over him as a sensation crawls up his arm. Cold. The touch of . . . cold glass. Startled, he breaks the gaze of the other and looks down at his hand splayed out on the mirror. Looking back up and he finds the other is gone, replaced with his own dull reflection. His own reflection in which there is a sink below him, a door behind, a mirror in front and moonlight barely illuminating the room through shuttered blinds. His bathroom. His sink. His mirror. All the same as it ever was. And he laughs. Shaking his head he leaves through the only door left in the room, wondering which side of the mirror he just emerged from for he glances back and sees that the stars, they still shine.
Doppleganger
The room was lit as if in a dream. He could see everything around him, the sink below, the door behind, the mirror in front of him containing his reflection and the light bulb hanging over his head which remained dead to the world. Still, he could see. He could see himself in the mirror looking back at him. It was peculiar. Spots of flung toothpaste clung to the bottom of the mirror, strangely doubled on top of each other and they were lit, just like stars. These stars did not sparkle, but they did shine.
In the mirror, just as with the stars, there are two of him. One on each side of the mirror. And they shine too. Looking into the face in front of him, he sees dazzling white eyes surrounding enormous black suns. And in their darkness, they too shine. Gazes locked the worlds dissolves. No longer is there a sink below, a door behind or a mirror between. There is only this encounter. Eye locked on eye. Black sun to black sun. Shine to shine.
Intriguing. Startling, he thinks. One shape, one being mystified by the other. Movements equaled. Bodies doppleganged. A sense of equal curiosity rises out from each, so curious of the other. A hand. Yes, a hand moves towards the other ever so tenuous. He can feel the movement in his arm, his shoulder as he reaches toward the other. A sensation so light that it feels like no movement at all, perpetually caught in an eternity between willed movement and broken time. And he wonders if it will end, afraid of what that touch might mean. Will he feel warm flesh on warm flesh? Or will their hands pass through each other and continue into some unfelt and unseen realm? Or will it all crack and rumble away? The universe shattered by the joining of the two others, pressing into some unfathomable path wherein individuality, identity and duality are not comprehended, not conceived.
Slowly. Ever. So. Slowly. The hands continue covering the span, the stars still shining between them. Eyes embraced, eager and attentive but tempered by a fear. Conflicted, he steals his will and thrusts his hand toward the other who reacts with equal fervor. And their open hands touch. A moment of vertigo sweeps over him as a sensation crawls up his arm. Cold. The touch of . . . cold glass. Startled, he breaks the gaze of the other and looks down at his hand splayed out on the mirror. Looking back up and he finds the other is gone, replaced with his own dull reflection. His own reflection in which there is a sink below him, a door behind, a mirror in front and moonlight barely illuminating the room through shuttered blinds. His bathroom. His sink. His mirror. All the same as it ever was. And he laughs. Shaking his head he leaves through the only door left in the room, wondering which side of the mirror he just emerged from for he glances back and sees that the stars, they still shine.
fancy:
Hi! Thank you bunches for the nice comment :0)