A Mirror Floating in Water

Here is a highly minimalist allegory, which, due to it's brievity and absurdist notions, is complely open to interpritation.




A white room


Echoing footsteps of a figure to the left of our view.

Naked.

He stands positioned in the middle of the room.

"Hello?"

His voice is an echoing voice.

"Hello, anybody here?"

He stands, exposed.

"Can anybody hear me?"

Regurgitating name.

"Hello?"

He begins to wander. Footsteps are heard. They are his.

He walks and walks and walks, yet he has gone nowhere and his space has not changed. The walls are as illegible as the floors. Gravity seems to be defied, for he may be walking on walls, or even on the roof, for there is no roof.

"Hello?"

Echoing silence.


"Hello?"

He begins to run. He knows. There is no winters wind to blow in his face or blizzard snow to blind him.

He could have run a mile if he wished and still be in the same place. What does it matter if he had traveled to world's end? He still would've gone nowhere.

"Hello?"

He reiterated endlessly, as if a wounded hound or a man with a toothache, moaning.


He is trembling. Silence has never been so indifferent, so deadly. What silence can do to a man, is ten times, a hundred times more awful than the perilous touch of flame. One begins to lose one's own body, one's sense of control. You feel like a child, hiding in a corner, muddled up into a ball. Except that there is no corner, and the more you try to lean on comfort the more infinitely empty you become.

He is blind and deaf, for the blind can see their tears, the blind can hear their whimpers.
Such fragile legs, shaking from tension.

He stops for a second, his breath is held, his legs are on authority paralyzed. He hears nothing. His heartbeat is all that he hears; the inner-workings of a city and industry of germs and cells. As if an internal anthill, ants crawling all over him.
These must be silenced too.
They must be silenced.

The cloth. The cloth, it too makes sound, atoms are alive within it! At work within those threaded micro-patterns, piled upon one another. Rip it.

Oh what a terrible feeling it is.
He stood there, naked, and yet he had already been.


A man walked up to his scrawny figure. He wore a suit.

"Hello." The man put out his hand to shake.

"Who are you?" He asked in a daze.

"I am Julius Caesar. Welcome to Rome."

"Where am I?"

"Civilization."

"How long have I been here?"

The man paused for a second, "Oh sir, you have always been here."

"I don't remember being here."

"Oh sir believe me; you've always been here,” he paused again, “I should know; I've always been here."

"I don't remember you." He said, pondering.

"Oh you shouldn't. I suppose that I am usually forgotten with time, as is all things," he said blandly.

The naked man searched the room. "What is that?" he pointed.

He then faded away and disappeared into the whiteness of the void.