PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“What do you really want?” Silence. The question echoed in his head. Then, like a metamorphosis, the aftershock took him by surprise, nudged and pulled on him, and plunged him down to Earth. Bewildered, the beast spun in-place, searching for the perpetrator, but a culprit was not in sight. The spinning turned into wobbling; knees weak and arms hanging off of his shoulders, his head dropped to an ultimate low. Breaking the fall with his hands, he collapsed onto the dirt and clutched the ground out of fear – out of fear of even this so called “ground” slipping from underneath him. I could see his brilliantly vivid, blue eyes changing; they turned into a frighteningly familiar brown. In disbelief, I looked away, down onto my hands, and my heartbeat stumbled. I had stained my palms with dirt. 

How could such a simple question, one of preference, be without answer? A basic “I want,” ending with an emphasis on any favorite action or goal, would have done the trick and spared him the consequences of self-realization. But that would have only prolonged inevitable understanding. Sooner or later he would have realized that not knowing the answer was half the answer itself – that failure was partial success on its own.

Before the incident he would stand so tall – so confident – with such assurance in his steps, like premeditated acts of progression. Leaves around him would crack and bushes would shake, but his face would only express narrow determination. Maybe it was that. Maybe it was his fixed conception towards his surroundings which caused him such shock. But why couldn’t he know what I knew? Why didn’t he understand that failure was essential – even necessary – for success? 

I had stained my palms with dirt. The beast caught my eye as he stood up mechanically; he appeared altered once more. Again in his tall, confident form, he came closer. It was almost as if he had known I was there, behind the mirror, watching him in silence.

As he moved nearer, again with confident strides, I noticed something different about him: his forehead was pushed back, and there was a calm tone in his eyes. Did he finally understand? 

As he looked into the mirror, my vision panned around, and I saw through his eyes. They became mine. I froze at the sight of myself through the mirror. “How could he have seen me behind the tinted glass?” I thought. My heart was pounding, and again it skipped a beat. The beast was not looking at me, but at himself. He was I, and I was he.