for everything, ever.

the world boasts a shiny covering, like the rain has finished painting the ground one splot at a time. the sky is clear, like my eyesight isn't. the heavens are waiting for their entrance, groaning in anticipation. just behind the velvety blue curtains waiting to be risen. did you even know that this is not the matinee? this is the grand finale. the final scene, the showdown, the resolution. the music is swelling, the popcorn is finished, and we're all waiting for the main actor to come on stage and end everything.

did you even realise that this is the play that is about to be acted out? count the seconds. i dare you. poke fear into your eyes and insert gladness into your heart. there's not much time! and this isn't the time for pretension; it isn't the time to recall dramatic techniques barely remembered from after-school workshops. this is the only decision you will ever make. it's the only chance you have to grab. it's the only cliff you're dangling off. it's the only life-jacket left. it's the only time in history that justifies the use of all the cliches ever written into human memory.

now we see as a dull reflection. you can't even make out the frame of the mirror, can you? let alone its murky contents, the glassy pool. there are too many fingerprints patterning the surface, too many confused and unseeing and cynical hands pressing against the very piece of glass the brains that direct those feeling hands pretend doesn't even exist.

but it's easy to scoff at a metaphorical mirror. as a finely-spun fiction, a politically incorrect fantasy. an embarrassment, a blight, a sign of weakness, a mistaken love. it's less easy to ignore the man who stood in front of the mirror, if for only a half-life's time. the man crudely immortalised with a bearded face and soft eyes and uplifted hands and sandal-ed feet. the only man who never needed to be immortalised because he was immortal to begin with. and i mean to begin with. in the beginning there was. in the beginning there was. it is certain. it is historical. it is knowledge and truth and sugar on top. it is real life, it is intervention. it is the man, the mystery, behind the mirror, stepping out and revealing himself. no longer a dull reflection. the mirror scrubbed clean. the immortal writ mortal.

he's yours.