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english earlier this year, meant to describe yourself as a writer... reuploading... it was an A- by the way...

When the light hits a mirror, there is a reflection. Without light, there will simply be a cold surface. The colors, the pictures, the ideas rise with the first light of morning, and continue until the last light gets turned off. Never the same light reflected, never the same idea represented. Colors and forms all melt together and the mirror becomes something; what was so quiet and unresponsive is now brimming with excitement and life. Mirrors never experience the same day, there is never a repetition, just one thing carrying onto the next.

            The window closes, the curtains drop, and thus no light escapes; no hope for the mirror against the wall now simply forgotten for a time. Once the curtains open, its full potential is revealed and celebrated once more, through the mimics of the mirror that tells no falsities, but leaves the truth in its midst. No flaw can escape the eyes of the reflection, no detail too small. No sugarcoating, just the people underneath.

            Those glances that people subconsciously throw at themselves, shaking their hair, stroking their cheeks, are simply incorporated into the mess of things flying across the paper, the blur of black on white. People take on the qualities of who they actually are. The honesty beneath the make-up, the truth within their eyes; it is all the mirror can make out with, since it cannot choose what it wishes to see, much less wishes to write. Depicting things how they are, potentially will be, how they once were, never what they pretend to be. The glassy surface tells you everything (the paper and pen cannot lie), yet gives nothing away. Ask a question, receive an answer, and look for the things you can’t see. The reality of simple black ink, the invisible kind, reverberating across the paper from my fingers, as the light hits the mirror once more.