Mirror-reflection

The story revolves around a man, Echo,  cursed in a peculiar way: no reflection could ever show his true appearance.

But his predicament extended far beyond that—he was unable to determine whether he was handsome or unattractive, incapable of perceiving his own physical allure. He had no way of knowing whether others found him charming or repulsive, leaving him in constant doubt about the emotional impact he had on those around him. He was unsure of his abilities, often questioning whether he was competent or inadequate in his daily activities. He doubted his passions, struggling to distinguish what truly excited him from what he merely thought he loved. He couldn't tell whether his actions were driven by selflessness or selfishness. He was uncertain about his relationships, never knowing if the affection he received was genuine or conditional. He feared that he wasn’t strong enough to face life’s challenges.

Obsessed with the idea of understanding how others saw him, he constantly asked people to describe him. But with every answer, he discovered that each description varied greatly, painting a new and different portrait of him every time. Unable to grasp a clear and consistent image of himself—aside from some trivial physical details—the man was tormented by a desperate need to know how he truly appeared in the eyes of others.

His day began and ended with the same routine: approaching the villagers, begging them to describe him, hoping to piece together a mosaic of his own figure. Yet every voice told a different truth, every word painted a unique portrait, none of which reflected the image Echo so desperately longed to possess.

As Echo kept asking others to define him, his perception of his own reflection gradually blurred until it disappeared completely. Now, in the mirror, there was only emptiness—nothing. Everyone else could see him, but he could no longer see, feel, or perceive himself. He couldn’t even imagine what he looked like. His mind began to waver under the weight of this absence.

What happens to a man who loses his own reflection? Who can no longer mirror himself in anything or anyone?

---

Dear Diary,

Every day, I ask myself: "if I cannot see my own face, do I truly exist? Is my presence in this world tangible, or am I just a fleeting shadow?"

Without a reflection, I feel as though I am losing my grip on reality. The senses I once trusted now seem like traitors. My voice sounds like a distant echo, my footsteps reverberate as if they aren’t my own, the warmth of my body feels foreign, my thoughts drift aimlessly without rest, and my breath... sometimes I wonder if it’s really mine. I’m surrounded by this unsettling feeling that I am nothing more than an illusion. I wonder, in this forced isolation, if my essence is slowly fading away.

I am overwhelmed by these thoughts, suffocated by doubts I cannot shake. I don't feel well; I think I'll go for a walk.

---

Echo steps outside for a walk, trying to calm the anxiety gripping him and, perhaps, to find someone who can finally reveal to him who he truly is. He heads toward the seafront, where the cool air seems to promise a bit of peace. As he walks, he notices a solitary figure sitting on a bench, gazing out toward the horizon.

He approaches cautiously. The man, an elderly blind figure, appears to be staring at the sea with such intensity that Echo wonders if, in some way, he can actually see it, or if he’s simply savoring its essence through his remaining senses. The old man, his face lined with deep wrinkles and his hair tousled by the wind, seems entirely absorbed in his contemplation, as if he is enjoying the view despite his blindness.

Echo, intrigued, asked: "What are you doing here, in front of a view you cannot see? Don’t you feel like you’re wasting time? I apologize if I sound intrusive. It’s just… it’s hard to imagine how you can ‘see’ without actually seeing.”

The old man responded calmly, without turning: “Shhh… Let me dream. Even though my eyes do not see, I can still hear the rustling of the wind as it brushes through the leaves, breathe in the salty scent of the sea breeze, and feel the warmth of the sun as it dips toward the horizon. Let me imagine.”

With a tone of slightly provocative skepticism, Echo replied: “But if you can’t see all of this, how can you be sure it’s real? Isn’t it just an illusion that comforts you?”

The old man smiled, sensing the challenge in Echo’s words.“And you, young one, are you sure of what you see with your eyes? Are not your certainties also shaped by past experiences and expectations?”

“No, the few certainties I have are real because I can see them,” Echo replied, slightly irritated.

“The point is not what is true in an absolute sense,” the old man said, “but what becomes true for us through our senses. For me, reality is what I feel, what I smell, what I touch.”

Echo shook his head, still doubtful. “But without sight, aren’t you missing a fundamental part of the picture? How can you trust only what you feel?”

“Sight is just one of the senses, not the only interpreter of reality,” the old man explained, his voice calm but firm.“Those who can see often rely too much on their eyes, neglecting the other signals the world offers.”

Echo reflected on the old man’s words, but his skepticism remained. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “but for me, seeing is believing. I can’t imagine how you perceive all of this without seeing it.”

Sensing Echo’s persistent doubt, the old man decided to elaborate further:“Consider, for example, a musician playing in an orchestra. He doesn’t see every single instrument while he plays, but he listens, he feels the harmony or discord, and that guides his performance. Isn’t that a way of ‘seeing’ through sound?”

Echo paused for a moment. "It’s an interesting analogy, but I’m still not convinced. Music is different; it’s an art born to be listened to."

“True,” the old man agreed, “but don’t you think reality could also be an art that can be ‘heard,’ ‘felt,’ and ‘touched’? Each sense opens a door to a different room in the same house.”

“But sight gives us the context,” Echo replied, “allowing us to weave together these sensory experiences into a holistic understanding.”

The old man nodded. “Yes, and I don’t deny the value of sight. But I challenge you to think beyond that. Those who can see often neglect the other senses, assuming that sight provides the complete story. My experience is different, but no less valid. I ‘see’ the world in another way, and that doesn’t make it any less real.”

“I suppose,” Echo said, now a little more open but still not fully persuaded, “there’s a kind of beauty in perceiving the world as you do. It almost seems as though you have access to a landscape, a symphony of sensations that I, with my dependence on sight, tend to ignore.”

“Exactly,” the old man smiled. “And every person, whether sighted or not, has their own unique landscape. The key is to value what we can perceive, rather than regret what we cannot.”

Struck by the old man’s response, Echo apologized. “I understand now, I’m sorry for my arrogance. What is your name?”

The old man smiled, reflecting for a moment. “I don’t know. I never wanted to name myself, or perhaps I never accepted the one others chose for me. What brings you here, young one?”

Echo hesitated before opening up: “I cannot see myself. I was hoping to find someone who could observe me and describe me.”

The old man nodded wisely before responding: “My son, we don’t need others' eyes, or even our own, to truly know ourselves.”

Echo, intrigued, responded: “But without a mirror, how can I truly know who I am? How can I recognize myself?”

The old man turned toward the sound of Echo’s voice, a soft but meaningful smile on his lips. “Young one, the greatest mirror we possess is not made of glass, nor is it found in a bathroom or a grand hall. It is in the way we live our lives. We are defined by the choices we make, by the impact we leave on others, and by the passions that drive the beating of our hearts. These are the real mirrors in which you can reflect yourself.”

“But how can I be sure of my choices if I cannot see who I am?” Echo asked, his voice heavy with growing desperation.

The old man replied with a calm and reassuring tone: “Your actions, your passions, your interactions—these are the true images of yourself. You don’t need to ‘see’ these things with your eyes to understand them. You feel them, you live them, you express them. That is how you know who you are.”

Echo fell silent for a moment, pondering the old man’s words. Slowly, he began to understand: his obsessive quest for a reflected or descriptive image of himself had been a grave mistake.

“So,” Echo said, struggling but gradually grasping the clarity of the concept just revealed, “the true mirror is not where we expect to see ourselves. It’s not in reflective surfaces or external images, but in the places where our actions, thoughts, and feelings leave a mark?”

“Close,” the old man replied, his voice low and reflective. “When you stop seeking reflections in the places where you expect to find them, you begin to realize that who you are emerges in subtler, yet far more meaningful ways. It’s not about looking in or out—it’s about recognizing how you exist in the spaces between thoughts, between actions, and in the echo they leave behind in time.”

After their conversation, Echo returned home. Without consciously searching for it, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors. For the first time, the reflection had form. He looked at it, laughed softly with a sense of newfound peace, and then shattered the mirror—not because he disliked what he saw, but because he no longer needed it.

 Moral of the story?

To let yourself be defined by a fictitious identity—whether external or internal—is not what truly matters. What matters is becoming aware of your own fluidity and intrinsic mutability. We are not fixed entities; we are simultaneously everything and nothing. Our essence stretches between the infinite and the void, embracing a range of possibilities that defy any static image. We are in a constant state of becoming, filled with both potential and emptiness, a mosaic of experiences that define us in the moment, but are destined to transform as we do.