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רון מוגלי
/ Shattered

I can't lie to you. I can't lie. I want to shout it at your
face. You ruined me. I am a disgrace. And I punch, and it
breaks. And I aim for the nose- but it's only the mirror
that breaks.
 Blood streams down, my knuckles cracked in more than one
place, my skin dry, and even that small punch makes it part
like the red sea.
 The red sea and the curse of blood.
Seems like we are back in the old days, the dark days.
Slaves of Pharaoh, the third or the fifth- let the
archaeologist fight over which one it was.
 I know what I taste, it's the sweet taste of blood- it's a
flood, and Noah isn't here to save them one by one, each
species with its mate, so they will live on.
 And I just want to cuss; and shout louder, all I hear is
this echo of this madness- the echo of my laughter. Blood on
my teeth, because I sucked my wounds, and I am scared of
what I see in that shattered mirror, which once stood in
front of me.
 And now this mirror does not stand, and what ever is
staring back down at it, is nothing but a monster, a
disgrace, a being separated from the human race, a failure.
One that couldn't keep its hands to itself- and had to lash
out. Destruction. It leads to death.
 Some might say destruction is creation of a
counter-creation. I don't think that is always right. Unless
to envision is to create. Then nothing is destroyed- because
you can never- un-see something you have envisioned. And you
can't erase what you saw.
 I forget. I forget a lot. I don't know why, but some say
selective memory is protective memory, or, in other cases-
just a way to cope by not confronting. Breaking mirrors,
breaking images. But the pain is there, I can feel it
between my fingers, and I want to find some ice- or
anything- just to numb it.
 And I won't lie to you. There is something nice about this
pain. It gives me, finally, a REAL reason to cry, a REAL
reason to want to shout, and cuss, and hate everything which
is around. Of course, I have created all of this, and
remembering this brings me down- and I put my forehead in my
hands, and sit. Gone.
 Everything I thought I knew, like my own face in a mirror,
was at some point shattered, with the ease of a little
punch. And the pieces were scattered, or cleaned, and only
visions of pieces of reflections, or reflections of pieces,
still sometime occupy a place in my mind.
 And I built a new image. I did. And I looked at it- and I
knew it- and I loved it. And it was shattered. Again.
 I slump on to the floor, my thigh scratched by a lost
fragment. A fragment of my imagination which haunts me every
once in awhile, when I think it's all gone, and I don't have
to worry about that reflection anymore, now that it's
 A new realisation dawns upon me as I lift that piece and
check out my new cut. Though the pieces are cleared away,
and the reflections are dimmed by selective memory, my scars
remain. Visible scars decorate my skin and mind, and lost
injuries seem to resurface all the time.
 I don't know when I was wounded, I am not even sure how-
but I despise that person that I saw, before I broke this
mirror tonight. I despise the person who peered at the
pieces with those dark angry eyes.
 And then it comes again, like a wave, like my heart
drowning in the urge to cry. Failure hurts- not matter how
resilient you are. It hurts when you fail yourself, and lose
any sense of what you wish you were.
 Laughter fills the room again, ''Laughing and crying you
know it's the same release'' but the echo left behind
reminds me that again, it's more than that image of myself I
lost, at some point, between all those punches, and all this
screaming- I think I lost my mind.
 I bet everyone think this at one point or another, at one
anchor of time. But then the ship sails, and they forget
about it. I guess they find it with the wind that blows
their sails. All I find is my own wails. And I feel stupid,
and I feel ashamed, and I feel pathetic- and sick of hiding-
hey! I guess this is just who I am!
 Who I am. There, on the floor. Pieces. Try to fit the
puzzle- it's a task no human has ever succeeded in before-
and I don't try to. I am just looking for a link. I don't
need the WHOLE puzzle. I just want to know what it is I
 Why do I want to shout? Why is it that I bleed?
I wipe the back of my hand on my chin, and feel the blood
smear. I rise and wash my face, and wash my hands, and brush
my teeth, and my hair- and dry myself.
 Salt and blood, Heaven on earth. Sometimes I think I AM
crazy. I AM insane. Then my reflection reassures me.

5th April 2007

היצירה לעיל הנה בדיונית וכל קשר בינה ובין
המציאות הנו מקרי בהחלט. אין צוות האתר ו/או
הנהלת האתר אחראים לנזק, אבדן, אי נוחות, עגמת
נפש וכיו''ב תוצאות, ישירות או עקיפות, שייגרמו
לך או לכל צד שלישי בשל מסרים שיפורסמו
ביצירות, שהנם באחריות היוצר בלבד.
בבמה מאז 14/6/07 0:12
האתר מכיל תכנים שיתכנו כבלתי הולמים או בלתי חינוכיים לאנשים מסויימים.
אין הנהלת האתר אחראית לכל נזק העלול להגרם כתוצאה מחשיפה לתכנים אלו.
אחריות זו מוטלת על יוצרי התכנים. הגיל המומלץ לגלישה באתר הינו מעל ל-18.
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