What you see is a mirror. It is filled by your perceptions.
What you see is not a window.
My mirror is filled with conflictions.
To yearn for greatness and nothingness. To seek substance in solitude.
I wish to be and for my mirror to reflect it all.
But my mirror does not shine.
Nor does it show greatness, substance.
Your mirrors suggest it all, glimmer radiantly.
My mirror is not your mirror.
Any one of them.
My mirror doesn't show the flicker of my dreams.
In reality, there is no greatness, substance.
Only existence in its rawest form.

Fear shrouds reality.
My reality.
What my mirror shows is the current day.
Group of hours by group of hours.
The miniscule amount of light does not reveal the future.
Nor could it; for the future is never in sight.
Even in thoughts of it, the future is not truly existent.
Fear shrouds it's reality.
Uncertainty beckons fear.
Yet...
I find comfort in conversation.
When everything else blurs out of focus.
When my existence is more than just existing.
Connecting, sharing, meaning.
But it doesn't last.

I envy sleep's constant serenity.
I do not envy sleep's inconsistency.
My dreams rarely align with my attempts,
and even then they do so with great difficulty.
My dreams are much higher than my reach.
I am not what your mirror shows.
I am not what I have dreamed.
I only am the years I existed.
And that haunts me.