Reflections from the Abyss

I have long suspected that I was not born, but exhaled into this world—like a sigh nobody wished to hear. There was a time I believed my mother loved me, but this illusion did not survive past the age of speech. Her gaze, sharp and luminous, devoured me. She loved not me, but her reflection in me. I was her proof, her echo, her living ornament. When I laughed, she clapped; when I cried, she withdrew with an offended silence, as if I had insulted her with my pain. In those early years, she was   everything . I say this not with warmth but with the horror of a prisoner recalling the uniform of his jailer. Her presence was absolute, her moods unrelenting tides that drenched every corner of my being. I did not speak—I   responded . I did not feel—I   monitored . My will was not mine, but leased to me under conditions I could never satisfy. And when I failed, as I always did, shame was my inheritance. My father? He was there, I suppose. A quiet man. Pale, spectral. He read his...

He has always burned brighter than me. From the moment we met, he moved through the world with the kind of self-assurance that made people follow him without question. He didn’t doubt, didn’t hesitate. He saw what he wanted and took it—jobs, admiration, attention, success. I watched him do it again and again. And I told myself I admired him. But admiration, in my world, is never clean. Because the truth is, I didn’t just admire him. I wanted to be him. Every morning, I watched him wake up with purpose while I curled deeper into my own inertia. He’d sip his coffee and rattle off plans and goals while I sat there, nodding, smiling, proud. Proud and furious. Jealous. Sickened by my own passivity. But I knew how to cope—I praised him. I lifted him, fed him compliments, encouragements, affirmations. I became his mirror, polished and obedient. I made sure he never saw the decay behind the smile. Because if he was admired, and I was close to him, then I mattered too. If he succeeded, I felt e...

There was a mirror in her room, tall and oval, carved with the kind of intricate woodwork that suggested it had belonged to someone important—perhaps a duchess, or a liar. It stood near the window, where light could hit it just right, offering her a glimpse of herself every morning and every night. And every morning and every night, she asked it the same question—not with words, but with eyes:   Who am I today? Some days, the mirror was generous. It showed her brilliance. A woman with fire behind her eyes, with plans too big for the walls of her small apartment. Her reflection would smile before she even did, as if already knowing the day would belong to her. She’d watch herself pace the room, sharp and certain, each movement performed for an invisible audience who waited eagerly for her next dazzling act. On those days, the mirror seemed to swell with her presence. It reflected someone worthy—beautiful not because of symmetry or polish, but because of   possibility . She woul...

I am a woman split in two. No—split into   many . And they do not live in harmony. They war, they conspire, they retreat into shadows only to burst forth in flames when I least expect it. If you ask me who I truly am, I will answer with silence. Not out of evasion—but because the truth slips between my fingers the moment I grasp it. There are days—oh, there are   glorious   days—when I become a creature of such fire that even the heavens turn to look. My body becomes weightless, electric. My thoughts race not like frightened horses, but like chariots led by gods. I am full of visions, plans, triumphs not yet born but already   felt . I wake before the sun and declare the day mine. I do not merely move—I   command . I do not speak—I   captivate . Men, women, even strangers in passing, turn toward me as if I radiated some ancient magnetism. And perhaps I do. In those days, I become beautiful—not by ornament or paint, but by   presence . My eyes sharpen, ...

I have always been drawn to them—these radiant creatures who walk through life as if the world were made for them, as if every moment were merely a stage upon which they could enact their endless spectacle. I watch them, fascinated, repulsed, envious. They are everything I wish to be but cannot. How effortlessly they take! How shamelessly they demand! When they speak, the world listens. When they enter a room, space itself seems to contract around them, as if drawn to their gravity. I stand in the periphery, studying them, longing for even a fraction of their ease. It is not love. No, it is something far uglier—some sick compulsion, a need to orbit them, to bask in the glow of their self-importance. They are so sure of themselves, so firm in their convictions, while I wither in the prison of my own self-doubt, forever calculating, forever anticipating unseen consequences. I watch them lie and be believed, wound and be adored, fail and be excused. I loathe them. And yet, I seek them out...

I do not need to be seen, so long as I am near the one who is. That is the trick, you see. A magician's illusion. You stand close enough to the flame, and people assume you burn just as brightly. They see the glow, but not the shadow it casts. I do not need to take center stage—I only need to be next to the one who does. And so I choose them carefully. The overt ones. The grandiose ones. The ones who walk into a room and are immediately met with recognition, admiration, envy. Their laughter booms, their confidence is effortless, their charm a force of nature. People are drawn to them in a way that has always eluded me, and yet, I have found my own way to partake. Through them, I feed. They absorb the world’s attention like sponges, soaking up admiration, validation, awe. And I? I drink from the excess. I stand by their side, and by proxy, I, too, am admired. Not directly, not explicitly—but through association, through proximity. They speak, and I nod sagely. They are praised, and ...