December is here. The frost has engulfed the day, the night. I gaze upon the red roses, gently scattered in no particular pattern, throwing playful shades upon the wall as the flame in the candle dances in the dark. How little did I know of what those beautiful flowers would come to mean over the hours, slowly trodding by. It's cold. It's cold and quiet. Silence has overtaken the world. The hands of the clock do their little rounds, tick, tock, time goes by. Time goes by and it doesn't stop, nor does it turn back. It's a very slow, but very determined flow. Time goes by and I'm frozen forever forever in it. Every word I said, every move I made, hanging pictures displayed in the gallery of Eternity, bound to never change or alter. How did Time alter these roses, just yesterday they meant something else; something forever frozen and hung in that gallery. Isn't Time but a mirror into which I can gaze? Aren't those roses but a wormhole, secret portal, kept open to glimpse into the endless, cold history of Time? A mirror. A true reflection of the One Who Gazes for One can only judge through retrospective. I gaze through the soft spring, the hot summer, the rainy autumn - moments lost in Time, moments I thought would forever grow and and wrap in on themselves, moments, I thought, would forever last, like the old photos in the books, moments, I thought, that would not disappear like the falling star burning up in the night sky. I come to realize now, the Mirror is a liar - it tells me what I want to hear, it shows me what I want to see, it proves what I want to believe.. Who's that in the Mirror? Is it I, gazing at myself as I am, or is it who I want to gaze upon? It is the Mirror or is it me who's playing this deceptive game? Do I gaze upon it with the purity and honesty, the scrutiny and perception that One must possess to see clearly? And while I ask myself all those questions, those moments will fade, the gallery of Time will be re-arranged until there's barely anything left as a reminder of the seasons. May it shatter, may it crumble to pieces, crush to fine dust, only then, in the fragments of that mirror would I see the true Self as-is, a disfigured face belonging not to me, but to my enemy. May the void left behind devour me so I can rebuild into the image I wanted to see, the image I wanted to be, may the pain I caused be healed, may the bridges I've burnt be re-established, may the tears never be shed again, may the fear never creep up, may the past never repeat. “So this is how a person can come to despise himself-knowing he's doing the wrong thing and not being able to stop.” ― Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon