“So…”
“Yeah?”
“So let’s say it ìs all just a mirror, the big illusion.”
“Oh God, this again.”
“Yes this again!”
“But why?”
“Because a question without an answer just lacks any satisfaction to leave it to die.”
“Right…”
“So let’s say it’s just a big mirror, right?”
“Uh huh.”

Their eyes rolled back. I look at them and, truly, they could not look more tired. Fed up with my voice, even my existence, at this point. The bags under their usually sparkly eyes were in a shade of grey only people living for months in a submarine could identify with. It was not a pretty sight, yet at the same time I couldn’t recognise how it must have felt to carry them around. I could only observe.

Their pupils looked… off. Not the shape, but more so the placement. They were oh so slightly higher up, and looking in opposite directions. It was so minimal only I could have noticed, as I looked at them every day.

“So it’s a big mirror, yes, and…?”
They also couldn’t stop themselves from asking me. As tired as they were, they couldn’t help themselves. They needed the answer as well.
They needed the satisfaction.

“Well, that’s somewhat disappointing isn’t it?”

They continued looking, somewhat forced.

“You see all of these idiots day in day out and you have to recognise them as being you. Why would I ever choose to be so dumb, you know?
And so you think that but then you realise you’re just as dumb, a different kind of dumb. Thàt you do know.
And some of them are aware of their dumbness, and some are aware that you’re the same.
And then there’s the question of the genius ones.
Now… that’s more fun and your ego has a blast in that rollercoaster as well. I’m smart about some topics but I’ll never achieve the kind of mastery as, well, let’s say, Einstein had.

They sighed, rubbing their temples, but didn’t stop me.

“Did you know the guy made predictions; accurate, precise predictions about the universe without the needed tools having been invented yet to test them? He must’ve been so frustrated with his fellow humans, carrying all that genius on his own. It must have been unbearable.”

A pause. Then, flatly: “He married his cousin, though.”

“Exactly,” I said, grinning.

Their eyes rolled away even a bit further.

“Please hurry up with your talking. I can’t keep asking,” they implored, which was followed by a desperate sigh. Their sigh echoed in the space between us, then bounced off the walls, before landing back where it started.

“So basically, you as an artist.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never find an original thought?”
“What do you mean?”

I watched their face shift. I had seen it before—this exact expression, this exact tilt of the head, the precise micro-movement of their brow. Déjà vu, but heavier. Jamais vu? Like something was bending under its own weight. “Which one is it?“

“I mean, if it’s all a mirror,” they continued, voice slower now, like wading through thick water, “then aren’t you just… reinterpreting reflections?”

The words lingered. They weren’t wrong. Every idea I ever had felt like it came from somewhere else, yet twisted just enough to feel like mine. Like a hall of mirrors in slow distortion.

“But the distortions matter,” I said, gripping onto something that felt like solid ground.
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
“But if you recognize the distortion, doesn’t that mean you’re just aware of the original image?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but—

—wait.

Had I already answered this before?

Had we already—

“So basically, you as an artist.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never find an original thought?”
“What do you mean?”

The room was the same, but the angle felt slightly off. A minor shift in perspective. Their pupils—still placed just slightly too high, just slightly too apart. But hadn’t they moved closer before? Or further? I could have sworn—

“You feel it, don’t you?” they asked, their voice softer now, almost amused.

My throat was dry.

“This has happened before,” I murmured.

“Of course it has,” they said. “It always has.”

They reached up and rubbed at their temples, as if trying to smooth something out. I watched their fingers move—slow, deliberate. The way the pressure shifted the skin, it distorted their face, just slightly.
A thought stirred.

“So…” I started, not sure if I was still leading this conversation or being led.

“Yeah?”

“If it’s all just a mirror… then who’s holding it?”

Their lips parted slightly. Not in surprise. In recognition.

And then—

A sigh. Echoing back.

“So basically, you as an artist.”