“If you can only reflect
Like a clean mirror
You’ll be that magical spirit.”
-Rumi
In a truck stop bathroom off I-80, where the fluorescent lights flicker like dying fireflies, I catch my reflection in a cracked mirror. Each fracture, a path to oblivion. Each smudge, a piece of self dissolving into the ether. Rumi’s clean mirror isn’t just clean – it’s a gateway to the void, and man, it’s beautiful.
Picture a world of perfect reflectors, seven billion human mirrors walking around. No egos, no selves, just endless reflection. The long-haul driver with bloodshot eyes, the waitress slinging hash browns, the lot lizard in her stilettos – all wiped clean, reflecting each other into an infinity that stops just short of forever.
We’re all just polishing ourselves away, one Windex-soaked rag at a time. Each streak gone is another illusion erased. Push it far enough and what do you get? A cosmic funhouse where every mirror reflects nothing but the absence of everything.
Traditional holy rollers might balk, but for the optimistic nihilist, this is the jackpot. In this neon-lit void, we finally see the truth: there’s nothing to reflect. No ultimate meaning, no grand purpose. Just emptiness, bouncing back and forth like a beach ball in a hurricane.
But here’s the kicker – this void isn’t just empty. It’s a blank canvas in a universe-sized art supply store. With no predetermined meaning, we’re free to spray paint our own constellations. Each reflection becomes a chance to recreate ourselves, each moment a new tattoo on reality’s skin.
So keep scrubbing that mirror. Erase yourself like yesterday’s mistakes. Embrace the void like a lover in a no-tell motel. Because when we’re all perfect reflections of nothing, we’ll have the ultimate freedom – to be anything we choose, even if just for the blink of an eye.
In the end, meaning melts away like ice in whiskey, leaving behind the intoxicating possibility of everything and nothing. Now that’s a magic trick worth watching.