The Age of Aquariums

 

I have been plagued by the compulsion to look at myself in mirrors and think I was seeing myself for my entire life. Vanity and narcissism are two major vices I've been trying my best (and still failing) to conquer over the course of this year. Between mirrors and clocks I believe the anguish of man can be almost entirely described, and since mirrors are so frequently what triggers my inner demons to come out and play, I decided to try and tackle them as an artistic adversary, if that makes sense. I wrote this poem as a spoken word poem, so that a person could not obey the poem's commands and still read it. However, I feel like you guys might find it interesting in print form. 

Because this poem functions largely as a thought experiment, a goal of mine was to make people think things they haven't before, and to do so in as visual of a way as possible.

The Age of Aquariums

Close your eyes. Picture yourself.

Plot twist.

You’re completely naked.

This is important, see yourself from head to tail,

and do not hold back on details.

Got it?

Good, because it’s about to get worse.

You, uncensored, are trapped in a tank made of mirrors.

Ten in all, and upon each wall you see yourself reflected infinitely,

naked from every angle.

In each reflection you see yourself to be

infinitely an inmate

inside an infinite number of identical  cells,  

that you and all your infinitely identical selves

can never escape and never ignore.

In every angle of your place

you see every angle of theirs,

so that in every angle of your place

you see only your face and only their stares,

and all of them look scared.

After all, your tank is so small, and so full of you

that all you can do is look

at all of you and wonder

if it’s really you who is the one

of you doing all the things

that all the rest of you do too.

Water isn’t blue, like Windex

in mirrors it is clear

that your imperfections

have replaced your perception.

You look up to search for God

only to find more of yourself looking back,

all reversed,

and now more perverse,

for the mirrors’

reflected reflections

of above and below

allow you to see yourself infinitely from both directions,

and the once divine becomes so infinitely entwined with rectal inspections,

that in order for you

to see clearly through this infinite rearview,

you must first tunnel through

any fecal deceptions blocking you

from the face of True salvation,

and maintain an anal determination

to obliterate any and all contamination

desperately stuck to your guts,

because now you must see up,

up passed all that is below you,

above all the bullshit,

to the place in

your skull where your soul sits

and reflections miss.

But even this proud pulpit

of Panorama views

and vibrant hues

can be a culprit of cruelty and corruption,

so back out through your eyes you exit,

back to the introduction,

only now  you see yourself as you truly are:

infinitely entombed in an

infinite number of

finite rooms, you are

infinitely alone and definitively doomed.

So go ahead,

throw your wrath at the glass,

let no angle in its infinite

collection of reflections

tell you who you are;

laugh in your face it when it cracks

because refracted eye contact

only leaves a single truth intact:

you are entrapped,

looking, not seeing,

free but not leaving.

You must

shatter yourself. Let it be painful,

let your every piece and angle

break apart and come untangled,

let blood mark the spot where

reflections end and you start.

But above all, take this shard to your heart:

Naked in mirrors,

your eyes remain closed.

Only windows

can show you your soul.

So open your eyes.