My mirror

Coniunctio III

My dear mirror, I thought time would make me forget your face, but with each passing day, I see it more clearly, even when I am not seeing it.

It’s not that I miss what I’ve never lived; I think it’s a longing that comes from somewhere else, from some other place we may have known once.

In it, I see gold and brown, yellow and red; I see the desert, and I see the golden coins on my belt.

In it, I hear the sound of the darbuka and dance for you.

In it, I smell your cardamom, vanilla, jasmine, and clove scent, and that scent never leaves me.

I hold you in abstraction, as it’s always been, but right now, I ardently wish for you in the physical. It’s already a full moon.

Don’t be embarrassed because I can see your beautiful blue soul; pains are never found, only recognized.

My dear mirror, is this really your frame?

I look at the sky and search for the constellation of Orion, wondering if you do the same to find me or if you sometimes see it and meet me there without even realizing it.

You were the ideal of my idea, and you knew it too, in that moment. But in that phase of my life, when I was only judging, I also judged that man for leaving that woman, even if he had his reasons, even if his actions were only considered abandonment because that’s how she felt.

And I judged that woman even more, just as I used to judge myself. I judged her because I thought she had punished herself with waiting and because she chose to return to the one who had once left her instead of opening her heart to someone else who genuinely showed her his love.

Yes, in my past, there was a bottomless hole in my soul, and because of that, I must have been starved for love. Then, I had to build armor so that no one could see my weaknesses, and much later, I didn’t need any armor at all because I changed my perception of what weakness means, and besides, that hole is no longer there.

Therefore, for someone who is starved for love, even the smallest amount must suffice. Any nearly meaningless intimacy must do. Opening her heart to someone she already knew couldn’t love her genuinely might have been enough just because he gave her love.

And so, we see that someone who is unhappy is also selfish, for if that were the case, she would doom her partner to love without reciprocation, or even worse… Doom him to love someone who, in truth, loves another, just to feel the pleasure of being loved. Could that even be called love?

How did bitterness take hold of me for so long?

Because I judged that woman, but she was analogous to me. And I thought, how could she return to the one who abandoned her?

At that time, this seemed like mere neediness to me. I didn’t see that the saddest thing in the world was not being true to oneself and that love without reciprocity has no taste. Would the love that only serves to fill one’s void be as flavorless as the love that feels lonely?

Today, I have so much love within me that I want to give it away. I see how, even if that man never returned, it would still be worth loving him. When you truly love, you don’t fall prey to the ego’s traps, telling you that just because you feel something, someone else must feel it back.

Contrary to what is said in The Little Prince, I believe that, even when captivated by someone, we alone are responsible for what we feel.

It’s not about making someone love you; it’s about being able to give something simply because you have it.

Well, I’m still human and desire you in every possible way. But desire is another thing.

Either way, how unhappy I was! Because I thought the ideal might be that man who brought her joy with his stories and comforted her sorrow caused by the longing she had for her true love.

I had to revisit those white nights once more. Then, I could see how much I’ve changed. I could now clearly see the true and the false ways of loving, and I realized that the ideal wasn’t the one who spent a few days with her but the one who would spend a lifetime with her.

In the end, the reciprocity we see as a fundamental characteristic of love is the one obtained by feeling it; it has nothing to do with demanding to receive it.

Those who need this kind of love are only those who do not yet have enough within themselves and those who, like me in my past, have a hole in their soul, missing the taste of true love so much that they only want to receive it since they don’t have enough to give.

Years ago, I already knew you were lost, tired of searching for you and without hope of finding you in this life. But I knew that when I found you, I would find myself.

My dear mirror, do you know that I am your past just as you are mine?

Do you know that pasts only meet to build a better future?

I thought we would never meet again! Suddenly, you were everywhere, in every word, in every sensation I had ever felt, in every encounter with all those things I knew existed somewhere but, for some reason, could not yet touch.

But now that we’ve met again, even though desire is another thing, I burn from head to toe when I see you and even when I don’t. I laugh alone at our arguments because they seem so familiar and, at the same time, so insignificant compared to everything else.

All the courage I think I have while writing disappears when I look into your eyes, and then

my legs start to tremble. How difficult it is to say that I’m not afraid of anything when I see this mirror, and even more so when I see myself in it.

Life is an irresistible foreplay that only lets you reach a climax when you let go of control.

And then I watch your tongue, your gestures, pulling at your shirt sleeves when you’re shy, your details—I feel your texture, your taste, and your fingers searching for the warmth of my body.

Every day, I think of you at 6 p.m., and during all the other hours when I try not to, you still appear to me.

In my dreams, you rest your head in my lap, and I braid your hair as we gaze at the trees, the earth, the sun, and the cool breeze brushing against our faces.

In my dreams, I feel your hands and the desire you have for me as they grip my waist. And suddenly, the fire, which seems so far from purity, actually springs from it, integrating with my body with the same intensity.

In the end, all that was always one but now is two returns to its unity.

And so, you visit my interior even though you already lived there, but now you dwell in the exterior as if you’d never set foot there before.

However, your seat is still here in my room; it has been here since that day when you couldn’t sit close to me because we only had one chair.

Life keeps happening; nothing is still. Yet now I understand that what I once thought was waiting—and therefore a punishment—is, in truth, the manifestation of desire through the existence of love. But even though it’s a full moon, and desire is born from it, I know that desire is something else.

Ah, let me stay with my fantasies, my illusions, my joy of living!

No, don’t leave me alone with my fantasies. Be part of them... or make them real for me.

My dear mirror, don’t you feel what I feel?

Longing for the touch of my fingertips gliding over your body, the warmth of my lips, the sound of my voice in your ear?

Ah, let me speak of my desires, even if they are something else, and even if by their existence, they make me yearn for your yearning.

My mirror, if you see yourself in me, you will finally understand me...

My beloved mirror, is this frame truly worth it?

Thiara Màtos.