“My role in society, or any artist’s or poet’s role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.”
—John Lennon
Future Reflections, a story
by Emma Blue
She was only nine years old, but she could see things. In reflections, she could see the future. She could see her wedding in the reflection of a raindrop on a flower after a cloudburst on a late summer day afternoon. She could see the man she would meet some day, who would become her husband, in the reflection off a bead from her mother’s necklace. And she could see the future wrinkles she’d have on her face, in the small ripples that the wind blew across the little fountain in her backyard. And in the reflections of light off the bottom of a deep pool, she could see a funeral—whose she would not say. But at this last reflection, she was driven to tears.
She asked her mother, “why do I see these things?”
And her mother said, “You must understand, that it’s not the future you see, for the future is never set or solid. What you see are only possible futures. Our imagination is a gift, and it helps us see the potential of all things around us, but what is to come depends on choice, and choice is always a mystery.”
Lost in Reflections, a poem
by Isabel Tolling
You’ve gone missing in your own reflection;
You’ve been taken in by your own misdirection;
And to think, you thought you were all perfection;
But now it’s time to give up on your own self-affection.
You’ve been taken in by your own reflection;
You knew all along we never had any connection;
So now it’s time to give up on your own perfection;
Don’t you see, I’ve just done your complete dissection.
You knew all along we never had any connection;
So don’t be surprised now by my rejection;
You don’t see it, but I’ve just done your complete dissection;
And what I’ve seen is that you’re merely just a reflection.
You’ve gone missing in your own reflection;
And so you thought you were all perfection;
but all you really were was just that reflection;
and I’ve come to see that you were my infection.
By and by, I’ll leave you now, it’s my defection;
Because I’m tired of staring at your empty reflection;
There never really was any connection—
you were after all, just my infection.
Painted Reflections, a story
by Harry Kane
He was a strange artist. He painted one thing, and one thing only, reflections. He never painted anything directly, and for the most part he avoided mirrors. He only wanted to paint natural reflections, and these he could find on lakes during a clear day, or across the surface of a pool, or even in a puddle the day after the rain.
While some of his paintings could be quite clear, often they were rippled and distorted, as he’d painted off a rippled reflection. These were his most popular paintings. They sold well. Some people liked their abstractness, their ambiguity. You could reflect on the painting, and see so many different things. Others bought the paintings for deeper reasons. They said that this was the way we actually saw reality, through windy ripples reflected on our eyes.
The truth was, that to the artist, he didn’t like reality. He couldn’t face it. Somehow it just felt safer to paint reflections and only reflections. To paint reality—it somehow meant he’d have to go beyond the reflections, to be clairvoyant, to see beyond Plato’s shadow on the wall in that cave that he’d once read about. This struck him as a kind of blasphemy, a pretentiousness he could never bear. So he painted reflections, and only reflections, and somehow to him, that felt more honest.
Reflections, a poem
by Dustin Down
Reflections of a McDonald’s
clean and spiffy
utterly perfect and pristine.
Reflections of a bag of french fries
getting soggy, wet and cold
in a rain that never stops.
Reflections of a car that
slides on shiny cold water
and does pirouettes.
Reflections of accidental collisions
with future lovers
leading to soft kisses.
Reflections of pupils so large
the iris is all but gone;
white that fades into tearful pink.
Reflections that hide reality
in a soft green dream, always there,
but only if you look close.
Reflections of soft conversations
tucked away somewhere safe
deep in the night.
Reflections of clashing families
with differences that lead to violence,
black sheep thrown together.
Reflections of a cheap hotel room
with purple tapestries and lilac quilts;
king and queen of our own world.
Reflections of a secret place,
you take me there
and share with me your pain.
Heavy Reflections, a story
by Charlie Tann
He jogged early each morning, before the sun came up. He wore a reflective jacket and reflective running shoes. He even used reflective paint and dabbed it on some of his old running pants, and these are what he ran in.
The street had its share of cars early in the morning. And their headlights reflected off him as if he were a nebula or even a reflection of a nebula running in the early morning darkness. As for him he just ignored the cars. He did his own reflecting. He was full of reflections: reflections of life, reflections of his wedding, and reflections of the funeral that came soon afterwards.
It was too hard, and it was only the running that kept him going, each day, for as much as he reflected on his wife—and the loss of her to him—he tried to forget her as well, because it caused too much pain. But she was an eternal reflection, the true love of his life—so how could he ever forget her? Why should he want to?
Finally, one morning, he ditched his reflective jacket and his reflective running shoes, and he jogged in the middle of the road. His thoughts were entirely about his wife. He could hear but not hear the car as it came up behind him. He stopped in the street and just waited, but the car beeped, and then slid to a stop, and he was still standing.
The driver got out, and ran to him, and her eyes reflected off her own car’s headlights. Indeed, she had wide reflective green eyes.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“I was just reflecting,” he said.
She shook her head, “What? Reflecting on what?”
He moved to the side of the road, and he could see the reflection of the night sky over the dark lake near by. It was an eternal reflection—just like his wife. Something hit him them, his own private reflection. Suddenly, his burden was lifted. He turned and looked at the woman.
“I’m okay,” he said, and he meant it. “I’m finally okay.”
The woman smiled, got back in her car, and left him alone to his own reflections.
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