I stare at the reflection and wonder,
“We are not all that different?”
Sure, my left is your right,
But you too must be going through the same joy, the same plight.
I try to come closer to you,
I press my hand against the mirror,
And at that moment,
The moment when I put my warm hands
against the cold surface,
I feel the boundaries almost melting.
And that’s as close as we can ever be.
Or so we have been taught.
But sometimes, ignoring all the distraction,
I move closer to you,
To hear what you have to say,
To hear the stories that the mirror keeps,
trapped inside the thin line between you and me.
But as I open my mouth to speak,
The mirror,
The mirror gets foggy.
Foggy with the misconceptions,
and hatred and fear.
What’s the mirror you ask?
The mirror is the result of
200 years of pain and suffering,
Memories of countless men,
Sand and blood,
Sweat and Tears,
All of it;
Churned in the fire of freedom.
If you look closely,
The mirror has scars,
The ones that can never be washed off,
And those scars;
they make it hard for us to see eye to eye.
Maybe all that we can do is wait.
No,
Not wait for it to break.
That mirror is never breaking.
But wait, and hope,
That each effort at meeting you in the middle,
Brings us closer to each other.
That may be one day,
The warmth of my touch is enough,
To melt through the
damaged, insecure,
scared and scarred hearts.
Melt in so that we can meet,
And realize and embrace the fact,
That we are not that different after all.