The mirror

An image lies only shallowly on its face,
unlike life, where depth lies in everything completely.
Everything and all, and all that we reflect
is emptiness and foam and silent regret,
depth without—none within,
depth within—none without,
an illusion casting an illusion of an illusion.
Can you see it?
This complexity, a conundrum and a simile,
is a conundrum and a simile in itself.

Few people appreciate the scales involved in an atom. Consider a hydrogen molecule, which is a single proton/electron pair. Electrons and protons are very, very tiny when compared to the size of the atom they form. In fact 99.9999% of the volume of a hydrogen atom is vacuum. The implication of this is astounding: the vast majority of everything we thing is “solid,” of everything we think of as “reality,” is actually nothing, an illusion of our gross level feelings and susceptibilities.

Then, to this, add the concept of a mirror image. Where exactly is that image?

Thank you for reading The mirror. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.


© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge,

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