How long has it been since I last gazed upon mine own reflection? Has it been… not since… no; never like this. Never so deeply.
How long have I been both leaf and insect? Am I equal parts both? If I weren’t, what would be the difference, upon death?
What do others see? May I find comfort in the fact that all four — you, they, He and I — each see something different? Am I invisible to those who wish me harm, beautiful to those who wish me procreation? Am I, as an individual, eligible for either, or am I, as an individual, given nary a single thought, until I force myself upon someone, demanding to be recognized, insisting on existing, begging to matter? Even then, am I, as a species, worth Googling? Am I, as an individual, worth blogging?
I hardly want to admit it, but this door, though reflective, is also a window. If I try hard enough, I could surely see inside. What holds me back? Is this someone’s home? Where they eat, sleep, cry, lay eggs, laugh with friends, sit alone? What is “home”? Do I want to see what another’s life looks like out of empathy, or perversion? Do I want to compare a random sampling with my own to feel better, or worse? Does altruistic curiosity exist?
No; I am reflected, therefore I am, therefore I am imperfect, therefore I am perfect. I am leaving; I am insecting; I am woman, hear me rustle. I AM. EASILY. GOOGLED.