Where is My Mirror?

We have nothing to hide from ourselves. Yet we do. It can be painful to look into a mirror. Really look into a mirror. Like they said, we only look at what we want to look at, hear what we want to hear. Others are also to be blamed: they only say what they think you want to hear, or need to hear. Now where is my mirror? 

So I write. The words flow into a lake. Murky. But it will have to do. It is not totally without bias, of course. But feeble is the mind: try feeding it too much hard truths, it will not digest. 

Now older, I know I have been a fool. Always have been, will be. There is too much things I have tried but failed to learn, or just simply refuse to learn - what is the difference? I can only pray that I have enough essence in the mind to survive in this world, and the new world it will become. At least, till my life span ends. Eventually I will have to fade away. But that cannot be like that of a typewriter. 

I have tried to look into the lake. There are some grey residues - all is sandy at the bottom. I hear the sweet, refreshing whisper of the stream like a thousand kisses.What is stopping our flow: the grainy stuff, and the sweet sounds. Something wakes in me, only to die. Perhaps that is the only truth: the temporality of all things. We belong to Nature, or are part of it. We will fall eventually, and for some, they will raise again in the name of faith. But I have no faith. I speak no words of god. I am free to roam in that sense, though it is still in the realm of a make-believe, unnamed faith. And this is where I am my own god - not in that traditional, proverbial sense. Though without a name, that does not mean it is less real to me. 

The words are now drying up. Now where is my lake? Where is my mirror?