It is the mark of a great writer to envelop in language a universal yet ineffable human experience, to give shape and voice to the silent ether of our most cavernous interiority. Among the most inarticulable of those interior experiences is the power of art and the profundity with which it works us over, which some exceptional minds have attempted to articulate
Inner peace, the kind that defies the outward worldly clamour and incessant pressure to belong, is conceived in solitude, behind locked doors and
tightly closed shutters. Its birth, however, begins when we stand in front of the mirror naked-stripped of all that we believe in; of the dogmas that have been passed
down to us; obfuscating and false idea systems produced by society’s elite, defiant of the murmur that peevishly whispers its uncalled for opines- definitions of doom and disaster.
It’s only in front of the mirror that we allow our eyes to open, not only to the curves of our physiques and the beauty of the outside man, but also to the hurting, abused and misused inner man,
the man scampering away from the whiff of success and greatness.
It’s only in front of this object that we can look at the man we are and juxtapose him against the freckled yet impeccable, unique being that stares back. Only through its uncanny power can we vehemently question peoples’ opinions and surmount the noxious words that sowed seeds of self loathe- the seeds we impute our insecurities
It’s only here that we are empowered to separate our existence from the lies deeply embedded since our formative years, the only place where the past and future menacingly gaze
back and forth at each other for domination.
The stark difference between the two is the odyssey and the man in the mirror, inner peace.
Copied as published on my first blogpost-howgathuaseesit.blogspot.com on 14April, 2012.