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When I first met Magellan, I thought he was dead. His eyes were stretched out to the stars with a vacant gaze; hands lay open, palms upwards, as if in supplication. His long body was spread out across the sidewalk, blocking my way. I went to step over him, ignoring him in my solitude; he was only homeless to me then. “Mirrors,” he said, gazing up at me. “What?” “We’re all mirrors, everything is a mirror.” “Okay, sure, whatever buddy,” I turned to go. “Wait,” he said, so soft and direct that I froze in place. He gave a long, luxurious stretch and stood up, turning me to face him. “Everything you see is reflected light. What you see is not the truth of me, but the light bouncing off me, my reflection. You are a writer?” he said, looking at the journal in my hand. I nodded, slowly. “Consider this, then: billions of mirrors, calling themselves human, moving through time, all of them reflecting the same light, but bound by different frames, looking at the light and calling it Truth.” He paused for a moment, turning his dilated pupils to the moon. “Prophet, scientist, philosopher, these all claim to perceive Truth,” he said with a grin. “But an artist, a writer, these know it’s only light, and bend it to their whim. They reflect what they want to.” “But there is Truth,” I said, angry and confused. “There is a Truth to everything.” “Everything is Truth,” he said, nodding. “But the only place to know it is in Darkness…” |
