One Day in the Life of a Mirror

I lay here everyday and every night. I am never touched, never thought of, never needed. I am forgotten. I’m gathering dust, my intricate gothic carvings once bright gold now covered in a thin layer of the horrible stuff. I should be hanging proudly on a wall! In the centre, where everybody can see me, the focal point of the wall – of the room! A number of years ago that was my role; I was the first thing you noticed in the entryway of the house, my gold frame displayed proudly on the wall. Not hidden, like I am now.

I don’t belong here, in this room, with these things. This is the room of a teenager, and one who refuses to grow up. I belong in a grand house, a place where my beauty can be appreciated, not ignored. I am completely out of place! Sure, I fit the girl’s style, but this is still, at the end of the day, the room of a teenage girl. Those silly McFly posters have just been taken off the wall – after ten years! But they were here before me, I shouldn’t be complaining – everyone deserves their time in the limelight. However, they’re gone, in the bin and out of her life, as is the mountain of cuddly toys lying in a heap on that unused sofa chair (which I am also glad to see the back of, it just caused so much clutter and, to be frank, was absolutely hideous). At least I know that when I leave this room it won’t be in a bin bag; I’ll be leaving with the girl in a couple of years when she has a place of her own, and I’ll be hanging, once again, in the middle of a well decorated wall, the centre of everyone’s attention. I can’t wait! I’m sick of being hidden behind the stereo and used as a ledge for old photos to stand on, half of me covered by a stack of DVD’s and framed photos she doesn’t care for.

That other mirror gets all the attention. That full length diva! It’s not my fault I’m not as curvy, not as tall. And it certainly is not my fault that I am ‘too heavy to take to uni’. We can’t all be full length and curvy like that squiggly thing. Mirrors come in all shapes and sizes you know – nobody deserves more attention than –

Oh she’s here! Watch as she walks straight past me, not even glancing my way. She’s walking over to her bed, putting a bag down, pulling out her phone, probably texting that boyfriend again. I swear he’s just as worse, not even a guest will look at me! Oh and she’s walked back out again. Did she look at me once? Nope. Did she think about me? Nope. Does she care? Nope. My day will come though, she won’t take the full length mirror away, it’s just a cheap IKEA thing. She’s going to want me, the sophisticated, ornate mirror that shows she’s a grown up – not the childish squiggles of the full length one. I’ll be the centre of everybody’s attention again, you’ll see.

Cafe Observations

He was an older man, looking through his newspaper and soaking up the knowledge it radiated. His red tartan shirt was a mismatch against the simplicity of his crisp grey suit, perhaps that said a lot about who he was but then again, perhaps it said nothing at all. His eyes darted between the paper and his hot beverage. Every once in a while the blues in his eyes glistened as the light from the window shone upon them. Yes, he was alone but he clearly felt comfortable in that space. Perhaps, it was his place of solitude and thoughts.


A Few Words On Music

In the words of B.B King, music is like a good liniment. Music makes you feel good. Blues, despite the common meaning of sadness, makes you feel good. Music gets you ready for the day, music lulls you to sleep, and when you find a new favourite piece or artist, you’re set for the whole week. Music makes the brain work faster, the heart beat stronger. Lying in a window seat with a warm sunset streaming through the window, I could be serenaded by Dylan or Wu Tang. You play what you feel and it’ll make you feel good.

One Day in the Life of an Ashtray

The whole afternoon I spent musing over the times when I still felt needed; when I was continuously being entrusted with serving a purpose. My existence then seemed justified, unquestionable; and not even the fact that I was being dropped and mishandled at the frequency of a hot potato could detract from that. That was then and this is now and ‘the now’ I am not sure I am so fond of. I can’t be expected to continue in this bubble of complacency, every day increasingly more enveloped in this daunting sense of being redundant and painfully unavailing. I, too, have feelings and I, too, yearn for attention and appreciation.

I am happy for the carriers of the hands that once handled me. I am happy for their lungs and their hearts and mouths and their elongated lives. I may also be proud; but I ask for sympathy too. I ask to be released and allowed to lend myself to someone else’s needs, someone who can’t yet see through the thick veil of tobacco smoke that clouds their vision and coincidentally places me somewhere near the centre, just next to the cig. Such is the life I thought was being promised to me that August day, in some remote part of Spain.

Dreamy Gaze and Nail Biting

Dreamy gaze and nail biting.

She leans on the counter waiting for her chocolate-sparkled latte to be ready. Black ripped stockings stand out over her pallid skin and rosy cheeks.

The wait is long and the flowers drawn on her frilly purple dress wither in silence. She turns and swiftly crosses my look. In that glimpse I read that she is sinking in the realm of missed chances. It is like summer is over and the light is dim and senses muffled and feet slow. The art of dancing keeps her alive – firm knees and refined legs – but a turmoil of emotions possess those eyes that stare at other realities and possibilities.

The process of accepting the past and plunge forward. It feels like the wait is long, but the coffee will be served.

The God’s Frustration

From some of the most lucrative movies of all time to this.

Hundreds of options for merchandise -action figures, posters, even lunch boxes- and I had to be stuck being a cartoon, childish version of myself, nothing but cotton inside and out. A fierce warrior transformed into a brightly coloured, pathetic pillow-like toy.

My owner is not even a child. Why am I here, then? She hasn’t ever taken me out of my flimsy packaging, and might the Gods know why. You know, the ones other than myself.

She looks at me and stops for a second with a smile, frozen in time, the flash of memories reflected in her eyes, before going on with her day and leaving me here, forgotten once more. I remember when she got me; the threat of spilling tears, as a handful of people handed me over to her, covered in thin paper decorated with my assembled friends. Now that I think about it, I realise I have yet to see them again. Is that why she smiles? Is she happy about leaving her friends?

Humans are confusing.

And me, Thor, mighty God of Thunder, am left to gather dust at this shelf, locked in my box untouched, reduced to the receiver of random, unexplained smiles.