The Mirror and the Flame

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, my spine straightens, my words bloom like roses hiding thorns. I lead. I perform. I orchestrate. I become indispensable. And time—my enemy in every other season—suddenly kneels before me. Every hour must yield results. Every second must serve the glorious architecture of my becoming.

But then… as swiftly as the flame rises, it vanishes. No blaze lasts forever—not when its fuel is borrowed glances, admiration, praise that glitters but does not warm. And when the supply dries—when eyes turn away, or simply fail to reflect me back as I imagined—I crumble.

I fall into a hush. My limbs ache without cause. My once-bright reflection becomes dull, foreign. The mirror lies. Or worse—it tells the truth.

I stop waking early. I sleep and sleep and still do not rest. The world becomes thick, like walking through water. I forget to eat, or I eat too much. I forget how to speak, or I speak too much and say nothing. I stop brushing my hair. I stop looking in mirrors. I forget how I ever shone. And what frightens me most is not the fall—but the absence of want. I do not want to rise. I do not want to be admired. I want only to disappear.

And yet—I do not.

Because in the quiet of those gray days, a small voice remains. Not hope—no, not so noble a thing. Rather, a strategy. A calculation. I begin to gather scraps of light: the memory of a compliment, the soft glow of an old photograph, a half-hearted reply from someone I once dazzled. I hibernate—not to rest, but to plot. Because I will rise again. I must. I always do.

When the world no longer gives me glory freely, I become an alchemist. I forge it from lesser metals. Secondary sources, you might say. And soon, the spark returns. My hair regains its shine. My walk quickens. My voice finds music again. I rise—not as myself, but as whoever I must be to be seen once more.

This is my curse. My rhythm. My reality.

You may call it madness, artifice. But it is survival. I have no center of gravity, only mirrors—some clear, others cracked. And I spin between them endlessly. When they love me, I rise like flame. When they forget me, I collapse like ash.

But do not pity me. I have known a glory you could never imagine. I have stood at the pinnacle of a self I conjured from air, and for a moment—however fleeting—I was that self. That woman. That star. And I will be her again.

Yes… just watch.