Man in the Mirror

Last night, I stood atop the shoulders of Life’s great philosophers, hoping to understand my situation a little better.

The road, as expected, was dry, tumultuous, and devoid of any hollering street-side vendors who might’ve aspired to make a quick buck off of my seemingly unquenchable thirst.

Socrates spoke to me about the secret of change.

Plato spoke to me of the songs our melancholy hearts sway around.

Louis CK told me to quit being a faggot and suck that dick.

But the most important encounter of all was with the Man in the Mirror.

Armed with a pen, a pad, and a pair of nostalgically solemn eyes, he whispered strains of soothing muttering into my eagerly awaiting ear.

Wise man? Idiot? Poor man? Rich?
I haven’t the slightest shred of an idea.

But something in his eyes told me beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt that it was up to me to turn those whispers into screams of unrestrained fulfillment.