jonathan fischer
The Night That I Fell into Myself
I fell into myself that night. My body into another body, at which point, I saw my face in a mirror. It did not look back at me; my gaze onto infinite* reflections? Inside that mirror, that rapturous nexus of light, multiplied like fractal origami. One night ten years ago, I accidently cut my arm on a broken piece of mirror. When I think back to that mirror - those beveled edges in which we lose our superstition – I’m reminded of its integrity. The old broken thing. A mirror doesn’t create or deny, it just produces. Perhaps then one could say that the mirror gives birth, the self an endless umbilical cord tied around the diurnal reflection. Waiting. Waiting. Tangerine and opaque. I dream in geometric metaphors wherein I measure the width and height [weight] of my desire; today, yesterday, what are its contents? Where it is lodged beneath the ribcage, rather, throat, rather, neither. And in these dreams the sky becomes a porcelain mirror, [think fine Chinese pottery] the ground just exists and where or what I stand upon [a mountain, a dune, a] is irrelevant; for every direction, position, there is a reflection pointed back to me. Like water. Mirrors and water are very similar. They both reflect the truth of their witness. I wonder if mirrors could talk, what they would say. You’re so vain, leave me alone, or Your symmetry is perfect, and I love to represent you, to serve you or I’m just not in the mood right now, maybe later. These mirrors are temperamental! We can conclude as such. Each one unique. I wonder if it has a favorite subject to reflect. Like an artist with oils paints his intention - those whites and sparse blues swell into each other becoming choreographed dancers [lift the stage curtain, cue the lights] - I think so too does the mirror possess these artistic inclinations: Think Rembrandt, dear reader. Klimt. That night that I fell into myself I could hear someone playing Tchaikovsky on the piano – an out of tune Steinway - the second movement of his Symphony No. 5 in E minor. Rejoice, mirror. Tchaikovsky. And then my reflection. My body into another body, at which point I was someone else’s responsibility
*Calculation for infinity:
if lim f(x) = L exists and is finite, and if lim g(x) = ∞ , then
x—>a x—>a
lim. (f + g)(x) = ∞
x—>a
Jonathan Fischer is a poet, musician, and short story writer from New Jersey. Jonathan writes short stories, poetry, nonfiction, and dabbles in other forms of literary experimentation. His writing and visual art has appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Futures Trading Lit Magazine, The Chiron Review, Driftwood Press, Apricity Magazine, and others.