About me & the mirror

Now, let me be the person who by no means took physics; after all, I forgot about the chapter on light to the extent that I couldn't get an A+. Imagine seeing a mirror for the first time, and you become aghast that there is a second you existed in the world, notwithstanding for the sake of subjectivity, you indeed do not reckon that there are two identical you in the world. Howbeit, even though piteously, the person who is the same as you, even the red blood in your eyes, proved that you are acutely aware that you lost your self-cognition.

I have always suspected that many bathrooms are not designed properly. The architects always elucidate they accommodate gaps in the top of the area surrounding my shower in terms of aesthetics or sturdiness, as if my grandmother had put spinach in the cupcakes for my health. Nevertheless, with the warmness running from my shoulders to my fingers, the air heats up along with my skin. This posed an infuriating issue——whenever I stood in front of the mirror after a shower to relish some stretch with myself, the mirror was always covered with precipitation. I could only see my nude body reflected in a mixture of even flesh-colored paint, see my hair blending with the marble walls until I doubted that with my glasses on, I was still helplessly nearsighted. 

Apparently, when faced with a mirror within reach, people who have just enjoyed a hot bath don't deliberately realize that they will never be able to touch themselves in the mirror; that is, saying "I'm baffled" to a mirror sounds clumsy. Even as a child, I would find a small stool, elongate my neck to a distorted angle, and use my hands or a towel to wipe away the fog that enveloped me in the mirror, but involuntarily I found that the mirror was always impure, and finally I had to compromise and chat with myself who was missing a nose. 

"You look the same as me except you don’t have a nose and you are larger."

"Does it hurt?"

"Do you eat a lot?"

"Why are you shrouded in fog?"

"Can you see clearly when you look at me?"

"Can you come closer?"

"Why are you cold?"

"Is it also cold when you touch me?"

"Are you locked in this glass?"

"Are you the same as me?"

"Are you me?"

"Am I you?"

"Who are we?"

"Who am I?"

Later, when I came of age, I ascertained from life experience that wiping the mirror was the maladroit way, so I no longer laughed at the fact that I was always more bloated in the mirror, and I no longer felt sad about the loss of my nose in the mirror. These emotions were replaced by pique and fretfulness, a growing sense of powerlessness that wrapped me in the freshly fermented dough, and only nothingness welcomed me except the waiting oven and frosting. But how could I frivolously say "I'm baffled" just because it was hard to escape? So I defend for my subjectivity. 

"You're not me."

"You're afraid to come out of the fog."

"You are afraid of being found different from me."

"You play me."

"You are so pathetic."

"Stop."

"You only repeat what I say instantly."

"And actions."

"How do you do that?"

"How can you be me?"

"How can I be you?"

"How can I be me?"

I held the expectation of the aha moment, deeply rooted in this confusion with no way out, and with each mirror reminding me once more of this painful ordeal. The water vapor was like evaporating my throat to get because we couldn't make a sound. It was in this context that philosophy entered my life, asking me directly, "Will you give me your hand?" I asked in return, "Do you mean me or us?" 

"The answer is protracted and you will have to spend your life to interpret it."