The mirror lies. In the mirror, there is me and my reflection. That makes two when I am all alone. A bubble is placed around me and no one cares enough to pop it. I am suffocating in it. All the breathable air being wasted by my lungs. My body is slowly crippling itself.
It started with the plaster encasing my forearm. A constant reminder of the useless bones that do nothing more than support dead-weight encasing a heart.
Then it moved to the hands. They spread lies like no other. Constricting screens is their favorite pass time, but the dishonesty that grows from their hollow creator wraps itself around the truth so that it never sees the light again.
Then, it moved to the legs. They long to run across a yellow field and force themselves over branches, but they are nothing more than a scapegoat for their author that wrote them a story of falling from the highest limb.
Then came the outcast of the bunch: the heart. It was the only thing that saw the rays from afar. It twisted and fought until it shattered and it too became nothing more than black dust.
Last, it traveled to the eyes. Each one sees a slightly different perspective, but once they come together, everything becomes transparent.
The painter conveys a clear image of the damage that was done. The stitches of hope have been ripped out one by one forcing weeds to take over the garden of a soul that once dwelled within me.
The funny thing is, the other guy, the reflection, he sees the same thing as I do. He knows the hurt. Two people, one mind. One creator, author, and painter. They come to the same conclusion and with it, the last glimmer, the last burst of color amidst the weeds, dies.
From, Evan Hansen