Mirrors. Speculums of phantasmagoria, mirages of dreams. How magical of them! How insanely spellbinding! Their otherworldly imbroglio of exquisite altercations, their playful, almost jesting sorcery. Their charm, their delusive grasping hook. A sorcery way beyond sheer averageness pounds and flutters in the fairest of umbrages, as my gaze meets two unfathomable pits which taste of cocoa and mahogany. What are they? Who do they belong to? A grimace so mundane, yet redoubtably mystifying, as though ruthlessly ripped from the fated heart of a random fairy. Her blood tenderly stains two rosy cheeks with nervy coyness. I beam in fiendish delight, and her scowl surrenders to a blooming scintilla of twinkling morning dew. She zealously mimics my childish moue in glee, and we laugh and laugh, and we cry and cry. Her raven hair frames an effulgence I conceitedly surrender to. For who am I to loathe such inestimable garner of scars? Our stagecraft throbs in reciprocity as I fecklessly reach out to grasp her, lure her, worship her.
Art, they say, embodies a craft so labyrinthine, few dare to give away their soul to its amaranthine infinitude. But I disagree! I do! Since no portraying feels as luscious as the one our light depicts. Mirrors! Speculums of wonders, of assertive bewilderment, of restrained liberation! How miraculous of them! How extraordinary!
Just like us.
Addah Monoceros.
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