Have you ever suddenly found yourself caught between two parallel mirrors? Have you suddenly seen yourself transported into an infinite corridor, endlessly containing your own reflection? What did you feel in front of that strange mise-en-abîme?
This place, endlessly repeating itself — was it clear that it was only the shadow of what supposedly belonged to your surroundings? Did you perhaps notice a predominant color, somewhere, far off at the end of that infinity?
In truth, what does it matter?
It was a beautiful reflection to behold, so intriguing for a few moments — but if it holds secrets it has yet to reveal, perhaps it never will.
An apartment, an open room, a key, a lock, and maybe, beyond, another door.
And then, again, near a half-open white door stands a tall portrait mirror. It was waiting for you.
You observe it — it’s strange. This time, the length of the mirror seems to center all its attention on you. You take a few steps, here and there, yet no matter your efforts, you find yourself at the very center of its gaze.
Why fight against your own reflection?
So be it.
Let’s leave.
A long corridor rises before you, an alleyway. You turn around, and to your surprise — there’s no difference between what you see and what lies behind your back.
That alley, it’s an avenue. It seems endless.
Perhaps it ought to be taken.
Let’s walk.
I remember.
Let’s keep walking.
I still remember.
When did I first walk it?
I remember.
The mirror — it was here, though.
I was there.
I think.
Or… someone was.
It’s difficult to say now. That memory is like an image left too long in the sun; its colors faded, its contours dissolved. I walk through a place that resembles me more than it surrounds me.
This body, these steps, this breath… I feel them, yet I’m no longer certain they’re mine.
There’s something weightless, as though I were observing this scene through a fogged window. The sounds reach me muffled. My thoughts too.
And always, that noise.
A continuous hum, like the dull buzz of an old television left on in an empty room. It didn’t begin here. I think it’s been with me for a long time. Perhaps since the mirror.
I no longer know if it’s me who’s walking, or merely the idea of walking, prolonging itself without me.
I could stop.
But even those gestures, in this strange mechanism, seem to belong to another.
So I go on.
I turn — nothing changes.
Ahead, behind, above, everything is the same.
I have no direction left, no weight.
No substance.
I’ve become the reflection of a reflection, that trace left on a mirror too often touched. A memory of having been, without certainty of ever having truly been.
The corridor, the avenue, the alley, the room — it all blends together.
Perhaps I never left that apartment.
Perhaps I’m still standing in front of that mirror.
Perhaps… I never was.