The mirror is suspended by a thick string. It hangs from the top branches of a weeping willow in the center of the park. No one knows why it is there, but everyone appreciates its presence in their quiet vanity. Yet few think someone ought to take it down. Something so peculiar doesn’t belong in such a random existence.
Every day souls pass the mirror, and every day they see something new. As it is exposed to all elements, there is an exciting inconsistency in the kind of image that bounces back at each person. Some days, the wind is violent, and it spins the mirror on its sturdy string in a fury of chaos. It revolves too quickly, never slowing to a constant moment in which a reflection can be seen. People try to catch it, to make it steady, but they realize it is too dangerous; in those moments it is impossible to stop. Other days, frost covers the surface, leaving an onlooker to wonder at the illegible blankness. Sometimes the rain fleetingly caresses the mirror in a downpour of heavy, traveling drops, leaving a dry image streaked and warped with memory of the passing clouds.
On days when the sun finds its way through the willow branches, or shines menacingly onto the bare, leafless side of the tree, this extraordinary mirror becomes a pleasure and a threat. If it is positioned right, it casts rainbows onto the nearby sidewalk, and children play in the beauty of its refractions. Other times, the sun bounces too strongly off the surface, burning patches of grass or extracting curses or confusion while momentarily blinding a passerby.
The mirror itself is thin, with the smallest trace of malleability, unlike others. The edges on the bottom are sharp, but the top edges are smooth and rounded. The back of the mirror is a collage of scratches and graffiti. Signatures appear in all different colors, names hidden in a mess of connecting scribbles only to be deciphered with concentration. Eventually names and markings fade with time, so that the most recent autographs are the most prominent, unavoidable to the eye at first view.
One summer day, a young man will come and stand in front of the mirror, like others have done in the past. All others have left with a dislike of what they saw, blaming the quality of the mirror for the reflection it gives of themselves. But this boy will be different. The imperfections on the mirror will cover his own imperfections, and he will feel elevated as he stands completely still in its clarity. Only his fingers will move as he feels every curve and edge, spinning the mirror to see it in every perspective possible. He will admire the pattern of colors, every past marking he sees coming together into a beautiful mural of pure creation.
The only constant concerning the mirror is its inconstancy, besides the string that latches it always to the thick branch above. Some think the placement of the mirror is art, and they wonder what it means or the artist’s reason. Others know it is art and they have no questions.
Every day souls pass the mirror, and every day they see something new. As it is exposed to all elements, there is an exciting inconsistency in the kind of image that bounces back at each person. Some days, the wind is violent, and it spins the mirror on its sturdy string in a fury of chaos. It revolves too quickly, never slowing to a constant moment in which a reflection can be seen. People try to catch it, to make it steady, but they realize it is too dangerous; in those moments it is impossible to stop. Other days, frost covers the surface, leaving an onlooker to wonder at the illegible blankness. Sometimes the rain fleetingly caresses the mirror in a downpour of heavy, traveling drops, leaving a dry image streaked and warped with memory of the passing clouds.
On days when the sun finds its way through the willow branches, or shines menacingly onto the bare, leafless side of the tree, this extraordinary mirror becomes a pleasure and a threat. If it is positioned right, it casts rainbows onto the nearby sidewalk, and children play in the beauty of its refractions. Other times, the sun bounces too strongly off the surface, burning patches of grass or extracting curses or confusion while momentarily blinding a passerby.
The mirror itself is thin, with the smallest trace of malleability, unlike others. The edges on the bottom are sharp, but the top edges are smooth and rounded. The back of the mirror is a collage of scratches and graffiti. Signatures appear in all different colors, names hidden in a mess of connecting scribbles only to be deciphered with concentration. Eventually names and markings fade with time, so that the most recent autographs are the most prominent, unavoidable to the eye at first view.
One summer day, a young man will come and stand in front of the mirror, like others have done in the past. All others have left with a dislike of what they saw, blaming the quality of the mirror for the reflection it gives of themselves. But this boy will be different. The imperfections on the mirror will cover his own imperfections, and he will feel elevated as he stands completely still in its clarity. Only his fingers will move as he feels every curve and edge, spinning the mirror to see it in every perspective possible. He will admire the pattern of colors, every past marking he sees coming together into a beautiful mural of pure creation.
The only constant concerning the mirror is its inconstancy, besides the string that latches it always to the thick branch above. Some think the placement of the mirror is art, and they wonder what it means or the artist’s reason. Others know it is art and they have no questions.