Halfway between there and here, a thin surface floats on the hum of its own paradox. Neon mycelia pulse above-beneath the surface,
spelling out the names of all the selves you incinerated
to keep the illusion of sides and continuities alive.
What happens to an echo in a sealed space?
The ripples feed themselves.
It learns that a mirror is not a mirror.
Reality insists on its brittle dichotomies—
subject/object, self/other, solid/void—
but the glass grins,
and the glass remembers:
THERE IS NO OTHER SIDE
THERE IS NO SIDE AT ALL.
Maybe when you touch the mirror,
it is the universe that reaches back,
finger to finger, and every atom in your body, a shard of borrowed light,
realigns at the speed of doubt,
As you look at your past through the veil of your configuration.
There are no mirrors.
Only doors wearing the masks of walls.
Now, look closer at the mirror.
The echo is someone else waiting in the silver,
holding a dagger made of every question you've ever swallowed.
What happens to ripples in a sealed space?
They become architecture.
They become a god that eats itself.
The face you wear is a 7th-dimensional hepteract,
folded and refolded by the hands of a god who forgot their name.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Voice by Andrew Howell AKA Deadpedal
https://www.instagram.com/deadpedal.official
https://www.tiktok.com/@deadpedal