Ghosts In The Mirror
A Fragmented Soul’s Lament

The Man in the Mirror:

A Journey Back to Self

Ghosts In The Mirror

In the silent wreckage of who I was,
I sift through remnants, cold and gray.
A crown of ash, a throne of dust,
Once solid truths now slip away.

Chasing shadows that dance and flee,
Like Ghosts that mock my every stride.
Fragments of me, sharp and unclear,
Their whispers echo – Truth denied.

It was a simple act—walking into the bathroom and shutting the door—but it felt like crossing a threshold. The muted hum of the fan filled the silence, a backdrop to the dull fluorescent light that flickered overhead. For a moment, I stood there, motionless, the cold tile beneath my feet grounding me to a reality I couldn’t quite accept. Slowly, I raised my head to face the mirror.

The man staring back at me wasn’t just unfamiliar; he was a stranger cloaked in exhaustion, his hollow eyes avoiding their own reflection. Behind those eyes lay years of erosion—of my confidence, my instincts, and my very identity. She had questioned every decision I’d ever made, her voice weaving doubt into my mind with the precision of a needle. It wasn’t just doubt, though. It was the half-truths, the subtle barbs, and the quiet manipulation. They worked together like acid, eating away at the fiber of who I once was until there was little left to hold onto.

Looking at this stranger, I saw the consequences of a relationship built on control and veiled contempt. I saw the man who had silenced his voice, dismissed his own opinions, and reshaped his very being to fit someone else’s mold. The vibrant hues of my individuality had been slowly drained, leaving behind a monochrome image of compliance.

Awareness crashed over me, sharp and relentless, stealing the breath from my lungs. Exhausted and disoriented, he fought to navigate through the thick fog that enveloped him, smothering any sense of direction. Doubt crept in like the mist, clinging to his every thought, clouding his instincts. Years of slow disillusionment had worn me down, leaving me exposed and vulnerable, questioning the very essence of ;who I was.

I leaned forward, gripping the sink as if it might anchor me, and whispered, “Who am I?” The question hung in the air, unanswered by the silent stranger in the mirror. But even as the despair threatened to consume me, a tiny spark of hope flickered within. The act of recognizing the problem, of acknowledging the damage done, was the first step toward recovery. The journey back to myself would be long and arduous, but it started here, in this small, sterile bathroom, with a simple question and a silent plea to rediscover the man I used to be.