I woke up in the glass house, the rhythmic beat of the rain filling the spaces between my ears, its drumming echoing the beat of my heart. In an ocean of memories and dreams I watched myself float, unsure of which was which, backwards and forwards with the immeasurable tide. Each horizon – the mirror glass of the room that held me – bounced reflections of faces I would never be, and those that I had held as mine, deep into my eyes. I stared through the ages, to where this had all begun, and further, further still, to a point before this had all been some fantastical wish in a young girl’s eye. Back, back to a time before the bonds of dogma, before the settlers had lost their nomadic feet, before the chill had come. In an endless moment that flashed quicker than the fork which tore the darkness apart I saw each turn that had led to this.
The umbilical current pulled at me once more dragging my eyes towards another mirror. This one seemed to hang like a ghost before the panes beyond it unsure of its purpose. I felt compelled to stare as if expecting it to reveal its secrets at any moment.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2021