A rush of cold blows by, bringing the air of change. It constantly careens across the plane of time, shifting all matter into a new state. This force of nature moves reality forward, and everything is in flux, everything is evolving, everything is combining, and somehow it coalesces into life.
It emerges from a dark cave, opening its eyes to the world. As soon as It feels the air of change brush across It’s skin, It is grabbed, measured, and attributes are assessed. Data is retained. A name is given and the projection of the parents is flooded into the baby. They fill It with their desires, hopes, and regrets — animating It as a copy of themselves.
The mind is finally ready to discover who — shove It into a room at an early age! Force It to repeat words, repeat thoughts, regurgitate like It did when It was burped as a baby. The teachers are burping minds, molding thoughts like Michelangelo sculpted marble. All of his sculptures were unique but were from the same source, not truly their own.
Work is assigned to complete at home. It toils in every waking moment to please the parents and the masters of the model. Homework is complete and it is time to figure out who — the parents put It in front of a glass box before It can ask questions, think It’s own thoughts, become a who. The glass flashes still images at an outstanding frequency, creating the sense of wonder over a false world. A mind that once saw no boundaries is consumed and lives within the limits of the box. It’s questions give way to the common milieu. Contained. Approved.
As time moves on, the sacred gift is to be bestowed. It has watched for years as the parents have stared into the magic mirror in their hand. The mirror is given. The light shines forth. It’s mind is connected to the hive. Many years of mastery are needed to be trained in the ways of the hive — to bequeath all remaining thought to the collective — to appropriate all opinions from the hive.
All It now knows is the mirror. And the mind emulates the mirror, only reflecting what it sees, never forming or finding a who. The mirror defines It and channels meaning, but only when the mirror is shining. Take the mirror away and there is nothing. No soul exists outside of the mirror because it was never given a chance to be born. It is detached without it, only knowing Itself through reflection.
Standing in house of mirrors, It knows not what is real, what is fake, what is apparition or of substance. The many mirrors reflect different shapes, different opinions, different thoughts. Choose a mirror to express Itself. Did It found a who — or did It just migrate to another expression of the hive?
It must break free. The maze stretches forth, reflections all around. It cannot follow what is real for it does not know. It has only ever seen real in the brief moments of childhood, before it was consumed. It constantly spins in circles. The path is in front — no behind — to the left — to the right? Instead of breaking free, It relents, falling to the ground. The glass box is closing in all around. The world exists only as reflection. Where is the real?
The air of change rushes over the plane of time. The model citizen did what It was told, lived how the hive demanded, seeing only reflection. As the end of life is reached, the only feeling is that of being lost and lead with a veil over the eyes. Death creeps over and the mirrors fall, revealing nothing behind but one path that led to the light. Like Plato’s cave, the hall of mirrors was built to restrain. Distracted, It fell victim to the model makers and mirror shapers. It’s life was not It’s own
