Mirror, Flash, Man Who Couldn't Die (Wonders Series), Page 2

reached deeply to the back of the drawer. My hand, quite inadvertently, trembled on contact with the forgotten talisman. My fingers, recognized the carved contours of the gold frame before my mind accepted the mirror's dormant existence. My fingers refused to let go, even though I had no desire to revert to my old ways of withdrawal from the stream of life. I removed the mirror and placed it on the top of my desk. There it remained for the rest of the day.

  That evening I gathered enough courage to actually look into its shimmering surface. I did not bother to assume any meditative posture. I sat at my desk, vaguely annoyed, as the article I had been writing did not came out as well as I had expected. I needed to have something to blame for failing to produce better work.

  I had forgotten the parallel stare of the past, the effort it took to visualize a single eye. I simply looked at the mirror with anger. For an instant, what I saw fuelled my anger still further. Then, it had an unexpected, opposite effect.

  When I first saw the reflection of my own eyes, I actually did not recognize them. They were the eyes of a man contented with life. There was absolutely no anger or even any frustration in them. The eyes which looked at me were bold, abundant in confidence that precluded the possibility of failure. It took a little while to realise that those eyes were well capable of writing a much better article then the one I had just written. I replaced the mirror deliberately on the desk, turned to my computer and, by midnight, I had an article which I could, justly, be proud of.

  I slept like a new born baby, woke up with a dream fuelling my expanding ego. I dropped off the article at the publishers, and waited, confidently, for accolades. The telephone rung within an hour. The editor wanted to thank me, personally, for the excellent work. This sort of thing had never happened before. There again, I had never written such an article before, either. My chest swelled in direct proportion to my ego. Well, almost.

  I poured myself a drink, and with controlled nonchalance I strolled back to my desk. My eyes chanced upon the mirror. I picked it up and nearly dropped it. Rather than seeing a reflection of, what I suspected must have been, my justly prodigal talent, I saw eyes filled with shyness, almost servile, eyes of a servant, certainly not of a Master, of a perennial looser, a man afraid of his shadow.

  I replaced the mirror on the desk, the angle of refraction now showing a small oval of the pale blue sky. There was a peculiar impersonality in this pale blue reflection. A dim memory of my long gone indifference. I left the desk and clicked on the TV. The news reported on a couple of rapes, two or three murders, and a general, wide spread middle-eastern mayhem with the attendant threats of war. Actually not war, just armed conflict. We had long since grown out of having wars. We now vented our differences of opinion by carrying out preemptive strikes. Providing we were sure of total victory. The world seem to know exactly where it had been going. Well, I for one, had not been sure of anything, just then. The mirror was up to some tricks which, at the time, I did not understand.

  Over the next little while, I became quite used to the mirror. It took me a whole week to confirm, that the mirror had been showing the exact opposite mood, or state of consciousness, which I had manifested at that particular moment. Why this sort of thing never happened some years ago, when I had spent so many hours meditating in front of it, I am still not sure. Perhaps, then, I had expected the mirror to produce some special effects. Then, even as now, it refused to do the expected. I never knew whose eyes I would see in its enigmatic surface. I tried to second guess it. It took me another two weeks to learn that the mirror did not show the opposite of that which I thought I felt, but rather that which had been blocked, deep within me, blocked from coming to the surface.

  The mirror became my constant companion. I worked, travelled, relaxed with it. It remained, ever, within easy reach. Slowly, very slowly, the reflected images became less and less distant from the emotions which stirred or controlled me at anyone time. Perhaps it was I who was beginning to learn to control them. On quite a few successive occasions, the images began confirming that which I felt or thought. For some unexplainable reason this fact had given me an enormous, an almost sensual, palpable pleasure. I concluded that finally I began growing up.

  That must have been it! I was growing up, though quite unaware of the consequences. As I approximated the mirror's image with greater frequency, I noticed a strange phenomenon. I thought nothing of it at the time. Now, well, you will have to find out for yourself.

  Myself, I am now convinced, that the mirror was and is, an instrument which teaches the essential duality which is the immutable quintessence of our existence on this, tangible, sensual, physical world. Even as there can be no concept of light without an attendant shadow, no mountain without a valley, no awareness of love without its balancing indifference, so no teacher could live, exist, in this earthly state of consciousness without having a pupil.

  I once had just such a teacher. Yet even though he did, ultimately, reach the next rung on his personal journey, he could not leave this dual state of consciousness without leaving behind, a worthy successor. Yet... did he?

  For a while I expected the old Master to manifest his presence through the mirror. Now I know that that would have been impossible. For as long as I looked for his presence, I found nothing. A empty void of indifference. Then, when I resumed my journey by immersing myself in life, rather then withdrawing from it, the mirror began to serve me, even as my teacher once did.

  Now, I have learned yet another truth. There comes a time when a man no longer can rely on a living teacher. The mirror taught me that also. The dual component of my consciousness did not belong to the mirror. It had been I who have learned to see that which separated me from the state of balance. Any mirror can serve this purpose. I can now see this complementing reflection in the still water of a garden pond, in the shimmering air rising on a hot summer day, in the eyes of the people I encounter during my daily endeavor.

  That original, gilt-edged mirror does seem to serve a special purpose, though. It is the only reflective surface which begins to grow dim. Perhaps with age? Even as I began losing the duality of my vision, so did the reflection lose the precision of its contour. I do not know if and when you will read this. But if you have any more questions, hurry.

  Even as my image in this strange, enigmatic mirror grows dimmer, I am certain that I too begin to lose my solidity. Surely, you see, in a dualistic world, whatever exists, must have its reflection. And mine seems to be dissolving, it's growing dimmer.

  Day after day, a little dimmer, ever so slightly dimmer...

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