Lady in the looking glass

I retired after a seemingly endless, mundane and extremely mediocre day with a copy of Sigmund Freud’s ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’. Soon I was sucked into the alluring mire of the master psychoanalyst’s take on the mystic subconscious, the ongoing clashes between the I, ego, superego et al.

Ominous clatter of hoofs sounded suddenly as the night unleashed frightening mares, which thundered towards me at lightening speed. They escaped not before having stepped hard on my left clavicle.

“Oh, not again”, I thought as I rushed to the mirror to asses the damage. History couldn’t be repeating itself thus — the doctor who had delivered me, had apparently informed my stupefied parents of my cracked collarbone. Later, it was set right.
My fears were baseless — the looking glass said. My clavicle seemed fused. There was nothing amiss… Or was there?

As I beheld my reflection I saw an entity — a dramatically improvised image of me. Her eyes were alive, a far cry from my sleep-deprived, bloodshot ones now. Clearly, this girl was bewitching in a way I could never be.

“Who are you?!” I whispered hoarsely. “Maya, your alter ego; all that you want to be but are not”, the beauty of the hour glass form responded. Her voice was power personified: “Surrender” Maya urged, “Surrender to me tonight, sister. Your harmonious union with me; your alter-ego, will benefit you in every arena of life.”

I was tempted by Maya’s offer. As I shut my eyes in reflection and opened them, they bulged in horror. Maya was mounted on the crazed red bull of ambition; with razor-sharp horns and a forked tail. It was ruthless as she was, uncompromising and blind to everything while reaching goals.

There seemed to be blood on my eyes too as an early morning ray fell on my closed lids and woke me up. I heaved a sigh of relief. Maya was a dream. ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ was lying by my side. I vaguely wondered how Freud would have interpreted mine.

I stood up, ready to face another difficult day; albeit happily. Maya was exquisite and her world magical, but mine was real, one of honest and uncompromising hard work. I could even make my visions come true. As I reflected on this, words of William Blake sounded in my mind: “No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings”.

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