The Mirror That Explains My Dreams #WriteAPageADay #910

The Mirror That Explains My Dreams

The mirror is not silver, not glass, not reflection— it is a mouth, a whisper, a scream of old selves unraveling. I stand before it, hands trembling, or is it the mirror shaking? Is it fear or excitement, recognition or denial, that makes my pulse stutter in sync with its breathing?

Last night, I dreamed of fireflies caught in a jar, and the mirror laughed, spilling insects into my palms. "These are not fireflies, but pieces of forgotten suns," it hummed, twisting its edges like a question mark.

I press my forehead to its surface, and it swallows me whole—

Inside, corridors spiral like DNA strands, each door pulsing with the dreams I never finished. A childhood fear, an unspoken wish, a city made of books, a river that runs backward. My reflection walks ahead, but never waits, and when I call out, my voice returns in a language I once knew but no longer understand.

"Tell me," I whisper, "what is real?" The mirror does not answer, only flickers— and suddenly, I am ten years old again, hiding under my grandmother’s quilt, listening to rain that spoke in Morse code.

I see a version of me with butterfly wings, spinning in an endless ballroom where the chandeliers blink. Another self wears a crown of teeth and laughs in static, eyes blinking like neon signs.

Who am I in this endless kaleidoscope? Which dream belongs to me, which is stolen, and which is a prophecy waiting to be believed?

The mirror bends, it twists, it folds into itself, and I am falling through pages of dreams that never made it to morning. A train ride to nowhere, a lover with no face, a staircase that never ends, an ocean made of ink.

In one corner, my past self waits, holding a suitcase full of unsent letters. In another, my future grins, wearing the shadows of choices I have not yet made.

I reach out— and the mirror inhales me once more.

I wake up with glass dust in my hands, and a whisper lingering in the hollow of my ribs: "You are all of them, and none of them. You are the dreamer and the dream. Now go, and wake the world."


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My Dreams or Is It My Mirror Dreaming?

Each night, I close my eyes, and the mirror opens its own. Does it watch me? Does it dream me into being? I drift through a forest of clocks that tick in reverse, and the trees whisper names I have forgotten. I am running, yet I am still. I am awake, yet I am buried in sleep.

The mirror tilts at odd angles, showing glimpses of places I have never seen. A golden desert beneath a violet sky. A house made of doors, but no walls. A street where the rain falls upward, carrying voices into the void.

I wonder: am I the dreamer, or the dream? The mirror chuckles—a sound like shattering porcelain. "Does it matter? You are both. You are neither." It is not an answer, yet it is the only answer I will ever get.


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My Face in the Mirror or the Mirror in Me?

I trace the outline of my reflection, and it traces me back. My face shifts, distorts—becomes a stranger, a child, an ancestor I never met. The mirror is not just a thing before me—it is within me, beneath my skin.

I feel it whispering through my veins, pressing against my thoughts, reshaping my features when I am not looking. Does the mirror take from me, or do I take from it? Is it a reflection, or a projection? Is my face carved by its light, or is its light shaped by my fears?

I blink, and the face in the mirror does not. I smile, and the mirror frowns. I reach out, and the glass is warm— as if it has been waiting for me to return.


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My Fears or Mirror Lies?

The mirror is kind, the mirror is cruel. It knows my secrets, my longing, my shame. It whispers things I do not want to hear, and when I close my eyes, its voice lingers in the dark.

"You are lost," it tells me. "You have never known yourself." "You are running in circles, chasing ghosts of the past."

But is the mirror telling the truth, or is it twisting my fears into its own reflection? I press my hands against the glass, searching for cracks, for proof that it is nothing more than an illusion. But the cracks are in me, not the mirror.


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The Final Reflection

I step forward, one last time, toward the mirror’s abyss. The room around me flickers, dissolves— and suddenly, I am everywhere and nowhere. I see myself scattered across time, across possibility, each version of me a ripple in a vast and endless pool.

I reach out, fingers brushing against a thousand reflections. Some are laughing, some are weeping, some have walked roads I never dared to take.

The mirror hums, as if pleased, as if waiting. "You have come far," it whispers. "But the journey does not end here."

I take a breath, feeling the weight of every dream, every fear, every unspoken thought. And then, with steady hands, I shatter the mirror.

The pieces fall, not as glass, but as light— scattering into the wind, into the night, into me.

And I wake up, no longer searching, because I have finally found myself.

#Dreams #MirrorWorld #SurrealPoetry #Reflections #Mystery #SelfDiscovery #PoetryOfTheMind #PhilosophicalPoetry #Metaphysical