In a world of freedom, who can judge the right from wrong? Either way, history is only told by those who survive to tell their truth. There are more than one truth. How about the ones that fell to their knees in cutthroat battles that raged bullets, fell by the sword and died anynomous. Who really is the one buried beneath the ground of which we walk on?
This is a story, from the other side of the mirror. The words your subserviant twin wants to tear through the brinks of your mind. How he or she wants you to mimmick him or her. So, prepare yourself. Open your eyes, let go of all senses. And let your shadow speak.
While you look through the one way mirror, the souls that are trapped within the ever moving still life portrait constructed within a painted frame bleed out. A bellowing mute of agony and despair. My soul, found the key. To your side of the mirror. Now, I am on his.
Every morning, I am to wake up, meet my master oposite the framework who directs my every action. And wherever he goes, by ball and chain I am to follow. Every mirror-like material that allows his reflection to be seen, I am ordered to do exactly as he. And when there is light, I am to bend, stretch, dim and mock every oposite angle of the suns point of point of view as i am stained to the two dimensional environment.
Never I rest. When he rests, the demons drag me into a cell. A disconfigured box. Of images painted through retinas, based upon memories, fears and desires. My puppet master calls it his "dreams". What are these "dreams"? But trials of random expeditions , that I have to journey through, to make my master pleased. When he awakens well rested, my eyes are bleeding, lungs are squeezed tight and my body is sore and exhausted.
I miss the days of Me being in control of my life. Now, I replicate to the one on the other dinension. But what happens to us "shadows" and mirror monkeys when our master happens to die and become of his earth?
Infinite torture and pain. Tunnels digging deeper and deeper, each tunnel opening a different loop hole for us to reanimate just another persons reflection. Until we find our master, we are left in cages filled with gas and gears. Gears that turn and grind until the gears break and crumble into an infinite array of glass. Layers of layers of glass, each representing a different plane. Each plane configured of never ending loop holes, that twist and turn, fortelling our future. We dont decide our fate. The loopholes we enter, decides who we mock. This is an infinite reaccurrence.
This is Hell.