Self-reflection

“A Man Converses with his Self.”

Mark sat down hesitantly, watching the other’s eyes follow his every move. He quickly scanned the strange room, discerning nothing more than the firm, oaken wood of the table and chairs. All about him was static, a blizzard of gray and white with a familiar hiss. He was deliberate in his movements, careful not to give anything away; shouldn't he know everything about himself? How poorly we understand ourselves when we get down to it.
“Umm, hey,” Mark’s voice cracked from the strain.
“Haven’t talked in a while have we?” he answered.
“I guess I've been a little busy.” Mark gripped the warm wood tightly.
“Too busy for your Self?”
Mark’s eyes quickly flicked down. He knew he was right, he hadn’t had a true thought from his own head in months. Who am I becoming? His brain was filled with the musings of a culture that places little value in its vessels. Mark noticed he was watching.
“I just have a lot going on. It’s hard being in the real world.”
“Oh I know, but that’s when you need me the most.”
“I think I can manage on my own here.”
Mark watched as he shook his head, a subtle tremor of disbelief and Self pity as his lips curled into a knowing smirk. He thought back to when he gave his Self up, to the instant he touched her hand. His wife never questioned why he stayed at work so late, never inquired as to where he went on his business trips. It was all a shadow of truth, a white elephant in the room. He could not bring himself to touch his wife any longer, because if he did his lives would cross, the thread unraveled.
He tried for months to work up the courage and come clean, but what could he say? Sorry is never enough. He lay on the side of the bed, unable to say he loved her. His family never believed in liars. He would sit at his desk and remember the life they had planned, a life he might still salvage. When his mistress would call he did not answer, not until after he left the office.
Mark expected a reaction when he told her, but he didn’t know what. She immediately excused herself from his presence, walked into the bathroom and smashed the mirror, promptly left the house and never turned back. He has not called her. Now when he thinks about the life they had planned he can no longer see anything but a broken mirror.
His mistress cried when he told her they were not going to see each other anymore, but he had nothing left to say. Mark was never one for tears. Why cry instead of doing something? Weakness was not something he could afford, not anymore.
He walked away and has not called her either.
“I can’t go back, it’s all so broken.”
“No one said you had to go back Mark. It’s time to move forward.”
“Where do I go from here?”
He watched as his Self gave a small laugh.
“You can start with me.”
It was simple enough to hear, but devastating to understand. Could it really be that easy? No, simple but not easy. Mark began to cry. The release he had denied for so long was upon him, and he didn’t want to give in to its embrace. He had refused to see the strength in weakness, the hope in fear, but this time was different. He felt his eyes upon him, but he continued to cry. It was as if he were a man dying of thirst given a drink: he took everything he could before it was taken away. Mark finally regained his composure enough to speak.
“There we are, it’s been a while since you cried.”
“You can’t tell me it’s that easy.”
“It’s not, but we’ll keep moving forward.”
Mark watched as his Self reached out his hand. It was time to sink or swim, but which is which?