"Truth Revealed" a story loosely based on Sylvia Plath's poem "Mirror"
Disclaimer: Song lyrics that appear in this story are not owned by me, they are owned by a very talented singer and songwriter named Annie Lennox she also owns the line pools of silver water that being said please don’t sue me all I own are my poetry, my computer, and my memories. Also if the poem and the first few paragraphs look familiar it is because I posted them earlier under one of my other pen names Sylvia Sylverton the poem is called “Untitled” and the first few paragraphs are under the story of the same name “Truth Revealed” since this is an updated version of that story. Also during God’s POV there is a line that I don’t own “eyes of a little god” that line is from Sylvia Plath’s poem “Mirror”, this story is very loosely based on ideas presented from that poem. I also mention Alice and Wonderland, which is owned by Lewis Carroll.
The truth- people spend their whole lives searching for their one truth- that one purpose that makes their lives worth living. They come to me in their entire splendor begging me to show them as they really are. But they’re not ready for that kind of honesty, they’re not ready to know the truth.
A woman stands before me, her tears fog up my lenses, she is hurt by what she sees, she wants me to change, change just for her. Foolish humans they actually believe that we are like God that we can take something and change it. They think that we could reverse time if we wanted to, but time stands still for no one. The woman picks me up; her hands are shaking so badly I fear that she may drop me. She looks through me as if I am a pool of silver water, an image that can easily be broken, rippled or changed. But I refuse to be broken that easily.
I can imagine what she is feeling, a mixture of nervousness and fear, her hands are shaking wildly with anticipation, and she can’t wait to see. She is searching for something, something that she longs for, something she knew once, something she had long ago, for some aspect of herself that is long gone. Her heart breaks before my very eyes, she is tired of herself, tired of life. She feels unimportant, like no one would care if she disappeared. But she is important to me. She cherishes me although I am the one that brings her anguish. Without me she is nothing, and without her I have no purpose. For a mirror without a reflection, is nothing more than a carved piece of glass.
I created the world in six days. I fashioned the universe, I put stars in the sky. I created a World, devoid of any life, and made it into something, something spectacular. I gave it life. I created all living things. I created the most complex creature of all man and from his ribs I fashioned woman. You’d think that since I created them I’d be able to understand them but you’d be wrong. Creating and maintaining the universe is a tough job, but I figure somebody has to do it.
Who am I you must be wondering, but there are many answers to that question. I am the wind moaning through the trees, I am the waves raping the shore, I am the footprints in the sand, I am the veils of sun slipping by, and I am the little strokes of silver mirrors falling from the sky. I am singular, I am plural, I am no one and I am everyone, everything, and every time. Throughout the course of existence I have gone by many names; God, Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Zeus, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Einstein, Michelangelo, Sylvia Plath, father, mother, sister, brother, etc. But my favorite name of all is love.
I here voices, all of the time, I know what you’re thinking and no it’s not schizophrenia it’s peoples prayers. I hear their innermost desires wishes that they’re not even aware of but exist subconsciously in their mind. Most times their prayers are pretty selfish, God give me a new bike or God help me win this game or God strike down my enemies with a bolt of lightning. I mean really who do they think I am their own personal hit man. But at least then I know that they can feel my presence. Here I’ll tell you a secret, I don’t give a rat’s ass what religion you believe in, or whether or not you attend church on a regular basis. Believe in something, anything; just believe. The time you have is so precious and it’s fleeting don’t waste it by being lumps in the wall that never really accomplish much of anything just sitting their devoid of any aspirations, thoughts, or feelings.
So when I get nothing from a person that is when I really start to worry. This is exactly what I hear from a woman, nothing, of course that warrants for some investigation. I own these series of looking glasses that I use to navigate souls. With these “eyes of a little god” I am able to find information about anyone; information varying from the color of their eyes to what they thought at ten o’clock the sixth of March, you name it I can pretty much find it. Not only am I able to find information I am able to be an unbiased observer of their thoughts. Ah yes there she, struggling poet, mother of crying infant, hasn’t written anything worthwhile in months, husband cheating on her with secretary, likes to make lists, and likes consistency. She is so lost; I want to tell her that wherever she goes someone loves her and that I honor her. But she doesn’t hear me, her ears are closed to me she has lost her faith. Night after night I come to her in her dreams and tell her “Everything is falling about in a circle”, but she doesn’t seem to understand that my love is endless. I will try one last time to reach her; I wrap her in my arms and whisper “don’t fret little mother all will be well in the morn.” But wait I hear something, she prays “Come what may. Let it be constant as the stars in the sky, the grass on the earth, and you’re love for me.” Maybe she’s not as faithless as I thought. She doesn’t see me but I smile reading the poem her heart has written.
Midnight was her mistress
Eternity her glove
Garbed in clock of endless possibilities
She sat and waited
The rain beat down on the little broken-down house. The baby was wailing she wanted milk but the mother was bone dry. Miles away the woman imagined were the green men in their green suits living in their green houses with the white-picket fence. These were the bad men, the men that would take your money, your job, and your life and wouldn’t even care. These were the type of men that never knew heartache, disease, poverty, and never had to work a day in their lives. These men might as well be aliens for all of the good they did. They must be drowning in their money, just like she was drowning in her misery.
While these men were buying houses in California and trading stocks on Wall Street, she was struggling working two jobs just to make ends meet while her husband was always out “working” late with his secretary. Not to mention she still had baby fat, fat ankles, stinky feet, an under active thyroid, and a bad case of cellulite. Life sucked, she should have listened to her mother when she said to keep her legs shut and “why buy the ice cream truck when you can get the milk for free” or something like that. She could never quite understand her mother’s drunken ramblings. Not to mention that no amount of therapy could ever make up for the pieces of advice that her father gave her. Making his morning trip to the bathroom with morning paper rolled in one hand and cigar in the other he would shout, “never eat raspberries!” while weird sounds that she didn’t want to know what caused them were echoing from the bathroom and down the hall. Of course years later raspberries plagued her nightmares and she could never look at one without shuddering from the mental pictures that little red berry produced. But honestly how was she supposed to know that when he promised her the world he really meant a mountain of growing debt and heartache. And men say we’re difficult they should offer a course in understanding men, lesson 1 love=pain.
The only bright thing in the drab existence known as human life was the cottage that she had rescued. Deemed unfit to live in even by cockroaches, it was a real fixer upper but now the walls sparkled pink, candles ornately adorned the walls whose atmospheric lighting gave the appearance of a little moon (of course people had the decency to not mention to her face, whatever they did in their own free time as far as she was concerned was their own damn business, that the candles were due to the fact that at this point of time in her life she couldn’t quite afford electricity but whatever the case it was never mentioned), in the corner of the room right next to the fire place was an old wicker rocking chair that had been passed down through generations and generations used by the woman in her family during those troublesome evenings where the baby cried and cried to rock the baby to sleep, right next to her chair was an old rickety table that she had gotten at a garage sale that she used as her writing desk, and her pride and joy the mirror laid front and center in a makeshift shrine. From nineteenth century Ireland the mirror told the story of all the heroes and myths past and it was said that it could reveal your future.
Walking over to it, she picked it up and looked at her reflection. Her face had old acne scars, old ink stains common for an aspiring writer who likes to rest her hands on her head, and what was that a whisker growing out of her chin. Her hair was so greasy that it could fry fish, and not the good expensive caviar but the terrible fish that gave you diarrhea. When was the last time she had washed it, better yet when did she stop caring? Those were all good questions but better yet, how did I get to be this way? She wondered. I used to be so warm. I bet if the doctors opened up my veins all they would discover is frozen ice. Why is life so hard? It’s like that old Annie Lennox song, now how did it go, oh yes I remember now she could almost hear the tune.
“Dying is easy it’s living that scares me to death,
I could be so content hearing the sound of your breath,
cold is the color of crystal,
the snow light that falls from the heavenly sky,
catch me and let me dive under
for I want to swim in the pools of your eyes…”
When had she stopped caring? She used to have so much passion, so much drive. There used to be a time where she couldn’t be seen without a pencil and a pad of paper in her hands, the sad truth was she hadn’t written anything worthwhile in months. Also lately she was being haunted by a seven-word phrase that didn’t really make much sense at all, “Everything is falling about in a circle”. Over and over again that phrase would manifest itself in her dreams. “Curiouser and curiouser!” she exclaimed channeling the spirit of Alice from Alice of Wonderland. That phrase had to have some meaning; she needed to make a list. She often found that in times of great stress, making a list was the perfect catharsis. She could see the advertisement in her head, got a problem you can’t solve? Then release your stress using list maker, found in your local grocery store, guaranteed to make your problems float away. This advertisement is brought to you by Mentos the fresh maker. Besides making lists was a good way to clear her mind. There were only so many things that can be put into a list and in an inconstant world she could use all of the consistency she could get. Okay time to make a list. One of the words was circle. What could be associated with a circle; what could a circle symbolize?
Circle
Ring
Earth
Time
Eternity
Love
The answer she finally had the answer, “Everything is falling about in a circle” simply meant that anything worthwhile would travel in a circle, what goes around comes around, so love lasts for all eternity. True Love lasts for all eternity. She was finally going to write and she knew exactly what she was going to say. Maybe there were no happy endings or fairy tales but at least she could finally live again. She lit a fire sat down in her little rocking chair in front of her writing table and began to write. The rain stopped, the sun shone brightly, and the heavens cleared up.
The truth- people spend their whole lives searching for their one truth- that one purpose that makes their lives worth living. They come to me in their entire splendor begging me to show them as they really are. But they’re not ready for that kind of honesty, they’re not ready to know the truth.
A woman stands before me, her tears fog up my lenses, she is hurt by what she sees, she wants me to change, change just for her. Foolish humans they actually believe that we are like God that we can take something and change it. They think that we could reverse time if we wanted to, but time stands still for no one. The woman picks me up; her hands are shaking so badly I fear that she may drop me. She looks through me as if I am a pool of silver water, an image that can easily be broken, rippled or changed. But I refuse to be broken that easily.
I can imagine what she is feeling, a mixture of nervousness and fear, her hands are shaking wildly with anticipation, and she can’t wait to see. She is searching for something, something that she longs for, something she knew once, something she had long ago, for some aspect of herself that is long gone. Her heart breaks before my very eyes, she is tired of herself, tired of life. She feels unimportant, like no one would care if she disappeared. But she is important to me. She cherishes me although I am the one that brings her anguish. Without me she is nothing, and without her I have no purpose. For a mirror without a reflection, is nothing more than a carved piece of glass.
I created the world in six days. I fashioned the universe, I put stars in the sky. I created a World, devoid of any life, and made it into something, something spectacular. I gave it life. I created all living things. I created the most complex creature of all man and from his ribs I fashioned woman. You’d think that since I created them I’d be able to understand them but you’d be wrong. Creating and maintaining the universe is a tough job, but I figure somebody has to do it.
Who am I you must be wondering, but there are many answers to that question. I am the wind moaning through the trees, I am the waves raping the shore, I am the footprints in the sand, I am the veils of sun slipping by, and I am the little strokes of silver mirrors falling from the sky. I am singular, I am plural, I am no one and I am everyone, everything, and every time. Throughout the course of existence I have gone by many names; God, Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Zeus, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Einstein, Michelangelo, Sylvia Plath, father, mother, sister, brother, etc. But my favorite name of all is love.
I here voices, all of the time, I know what you’re thinking and no it’s not schizophrenia it’s peoples prayers. I hear their innermost desires wishes that they’re not even aware of but exist subconsciously in their mind. Most times their prayers are pretty selfish, God give me a new bike or God help me win this game or God strike down my enemies with a bolt of lightning. I mean really who do they think I am their own personal hit man. But at least then I know that they can feel my presence. Here I’ll tell you a secret, I don’t give a rat’s ass what religion you believe in, or whether or not you attend church on a regular basis. Believe in something, anything; just believe. The time you have is so precious and it’s fleeting don’t waste it by being lumps in the wall that never really accomplish much of anything just sitting their devoid of any aspirations, thoughts, or feelings.
So when I get nothing from a person that is when I really start to worry. This is exactly what I hear from a woman, nothing, of course that warrants for some investigation. I own these series of looking glasses that I use to navigate souls. With these “eyes of a little god” I am able to find information about anyone; information varying from the color of their eyes to what they thought at ten o’clock the sixth of March, you name it I can pretty much find it. Not only am I able to find information I am able to be an unbiased observer of their thoughts. Ah yes there she, struggling poet, mother of crying infant, hasn’t written anything worthwhile in months, husband cheating on her with secretary, likes to make lists, and likes consistency. She is so lost; I want to tell her that wherever she goes someone loves her and that I honor her. But she doesn’t hear me, her ears are closed to me she has lost her faith. Night after night I come to her in her dreams and tell her “Everything is falling about in a circle”, but she doesn’t seem to understand that my love is endless. I will try one last time to reach her; I wrap her in my arms and whisper “don’t fret little mother all will be well in the morn.” But wait I hear something, she prays “Come what may. Let it be constant as the stars in the sky, the grass on the earth, and you’re love for me.” Maybe she’s not as faithless as I thought. She doesn’t see me but I smile reading the poem her heart has written.
Midnight was her mistress
Eternity her glove
Garbed in clock of endless possibilities
She sat and waited
The rain beat down on the little broken-down house. The baby was wailing she wanted milk but the mother was bone dry. Miles away the woman imagined were the green men in their green suits living in their green houses with the white-picket fence. These were the bad men, the men that would take your money, your job, and your life and wouldn’t even care. These were the type of men that never knew heartache, disease, poverty, and never had to work a day in their lives. These men might as well be aliens for all of the good they did. They must be drowning in their money, just like she was drowning in her misery.
While these men were buying houses in California and trading stocks on Wall Street, she was struggling working two jobs just to make ends meet while her husband was always out “working” late with his secretary. Not to mention she still had baby fat, fat ankles, stinky feet, an under active thyroid, and a bad case of cellulite. Life sucked, she should have listened to her mother when she said to keep her legs shut and “why buy the ice cream truck when you can get the milk for free” or something like that. She could never quite understand her mother’s drunken ramblings. Not to mention that no amount of therapy could ever make up for the pieces of advice that her father gave her. Making his morning trip to the bathroom with morning paper rolled in one hand and cigar in the other he would shout, “never eat raspberries!” while weird sounds that she didn’t want to know what caused them were echoing from the bathroom and down the hall. Of course years later raspberries plagued her nightmares and she could never look at one without shuddering from the mental pictures that little red berry produced. But honestly how was she supposed to know that when he promised her the world he really meant a mountain of growing debt and heartache. And men say we’re difficult they should offer a course in understanding men, lesson 1 love=pain.
The only bright thing in the drab existence known as human life was the cottage that she had rescued. Deemed unfit to live in even by cockroaches, it was a real fixer upper but now the walls sparkled pink, candles ornately adorned the walls whose atmospheric lighting gave the appearance of a little moon (of course people had the decency to not mention to her face, whatever they did in their own free time as far as she was concerned was their own damn business, that the candles were due to the fact that at this point of time in her life she couldn’t quite afford electricity but whatever the case it was never mentioned), in the corner of the room right next to the fire place was an old wicker rocking chair that had been passed down through generations and generations used by the woman in her family during those troublesome evenings where the baby cried and cried to rock the baby to sleep, right next to her chair was an old rickety table that she had gotten at a garage sale that she used as her writing desk, and her pride and joy the mirror laid front and center in a makeshift shrine. From nineteenth century Ireland the mirror told the story of all the heroes and myths past and it was said that it could reveal your future.
Walking over to it, she picked it up and looked at her reflection. Her face had old acne scars, old ink stains common for an aspiring writer who likes to rest her hands on her head, and what was that a whisker growing out of her chin. Her hair was so greasy that it could fry fish, and not the good expensive caviar but the terrible fish that gave you diarrhea. When was the last time she had washed it, better yet when did she stop caring? Those were all good questions but better yet, how did I get to be this way? She wondered. I used to be so warm. I bet if the doctors opened up my veins all they would discover is frozen ice. Why is life so hard? It’s like that old Annie Lennox song, now how did it go, oh yes I remember now she could almost hear the tune.
“Dying is easy it’s living that scares me to death,
I could be so content hearing the sound of your breath,
cold is the color of crystal,
the snow light that falls from the heavenly sky,
catch me and let me dive under
for I want to swim in the pools of your eyes…”
When had she stopped caring? She used to have so much passion, so much drive. There used to be a time where she couldn’t be seen without a pencil and a pad of paper in her hands, the sad truth was she hadn’t written anything worthwhile in months. Also lately she was being haunted by a seven-word phrase that didn’t really make much sense at all, “Everything is falling about in a circle”. Over and over again that phrase would manifest itself in her dreams. “Curiouser and curiouser!” she exclaimed channeling the spirit of Alice from Alice of Wonderland. That phrase had to have some meaning; she needed to make a list. She often found that in times of great stress, making a list was the perfect catharsis. She could see the advertisement in her head, got a problem you can’t solve? Then release your stress using list maker, found in your local grocery store, guaranteed to make your problems float away. This advertisement is brought to you by Mentos the fresh maker. Besides making lists was a good way to clear her mind. There were only so many things that can be put into a list and in an inconstant world she could use all of the consistency she could get. Okay time to make a list. One of the words was circle. What could be associated with a circle; what could a circle symbolize?
Circle
Ring
Earth
Time
Eternity
Love
The answer she finally had the answer, “Everything is falling about in a circle” simply meant that anything worthwhile would travel in a circle, what goes around comes around, so love lasts for all eternity. True Love lasts for all eternity. She was finally going to write and she knew exactly what she was going to say. Maybe there were no happy endings or fairy tales but at least she could finally live again. She lit a fire sat down in her little rocking chair in front of her writing table and began to write. The rain stopped, the sun shone brightly, and the heavens cleared up.