We are mirrors; us, each and every one. We can reflect upon everything else, but never it seems, that we can we reflect upon ourselves.
We may spin and spin and feverishly try to arrange others about ourselves so we may look within, but all of our doors are shut up tight.
Tighter than any prison.
And windows! what mad talk of windows? We have none.
Our eyes are merely deep reflective pools, deceptive little seas of sparkling sands showing the temptation of something which isn't a reflection.
In our madness for understanding of ourselves we become caught in the kelp and grasping tentacles of the massive sea monsters of obsession.
Self understanding is a greater myth than any kraken or unicorn.
Yet we chase it, like the Englishmen spending the equivalents of millions for a Narwhal horn to touch upon the novelty of legend.
We grasp most tightly to the cracks in the walls, trying in vain to pull them open into great chasms of knowing while a few inches from us is a hallway of doorways.
But we ignore them because none of them lead into ourselves.
For the elusive unicorn, we forfeit the beauty of the horse.
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