one day i’d like to meet the stranger i see in the mirror: 

she seems kind enough and walks with perfect posture, poised proudly. she imagines she owns the earth, and she sings as though she drank in the sunlight and merely wants to share the warmth with everyone else. her tinkling laughter harmonizes the howling wind and fades as it is carried away, the same way she dreams upon a dandelion seed so that it straddles a wish as it floats up to the stars. she helps others carry their burdens on their backs, even though her own is weighing her down and only seems to get heavier. so she acts strong, refusing to let others see her falter, because she’s convinced that with enough lifting she’ll grow even stronger. she forgets that rest is necessary, weathering dark circles around her eyes, and wonders why her limbs feel limp and weary. 

this is the same stranger others have grown to know, accepted as a person and not a monster. but to me, the stranger in the mirror is a hollow shell: empty, robotic, and lacking a soul: 

my heart throbs with a pulse but not a beat. it feels the pains of running for 14 years and never given a chance to stop. it longs to process the dusty pile of emotions, covered in cobwebs, smelling of mothballs, and yet no care is turned towards them. my mind is a complicated space, an office lacking organization. several years without proper leadership have caused a lack of ability for it to work beyond its regular routine. finally there is my soul, always missing-in-action, gone since day one. it embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, gleaning for parts of me, glass gleaming amidst the gloom. each is a part of a beautiful puzzle, slowly built up with time. but it has yet to return, and until then i remain incomplete. 

the stranger in the mirror acts in familiar ways, yet she often ignore my presence, for she knows not how to function with me inside her: 

she pretends as though she’s not being puppeted by her circumstances. she acts as though i can’t spy her solar-powered smile and remote-controlled self-esteem. her song has been recorded, remixed, and remade, and for years no one found out. she’s listened to it enough times so she’s started to believe it as true, but something still nags at her: she feels no one will ever hear her true voice, coarse and rough, weathered from lack of use. mama once told her that practice makes perfect, so for four years she’s been practicing her laughter, the chime of bells though she feels more like she’s trembling against another part of herself, a shaken vibration. she walks as though she’s afraid of hurting the cracked sidewalk—she, too, is cracked, and despises those who tread over her fault lines. she’s heard that the world’s a stage, so she must be an actress with the role of a villain. she shields herself from the hurt and heartache, so every glimmer of beauty that drops to the ground reminds her that she has failed to catch yet another sliver of happiness. this drops her spirits, but her fists are clenched in fear, and how is she to receive beauty if she refuses to receive pain; if she does not walk with open hands? 

i’ve heard we bear striking similarities, but the only similarity that strikes me are her eyes, for eyes are the window to her soul, yet it is more of a mirror to mine.