Matheus Ervall

Matheus Ervall

Here is a note on this re-edited version of the successful first edition of “Mirror, Mirror”, published in
2039: I am no writer, I barely even know how I should write this small introductory paragraph, but
since the publisher demanded me to write some lines, I guess I will have to do my best. I collected
these sheet of paper while out on a morning shift, I am in truth a lumberjack, and not a very good
one at that, since I feel sorry for the trees I cut down. These papers were scattered all over the field,
pinned on tree stumps and nestled into reeds. It took me over a week to find all the pieces required
to complete this strange diary. I believe my exploration covered a radius of over one mile. Till this
day, the woman who wrote them has not revealed herself and no one got any clue as to what has
become of her (we do know that she existed, at least until that odd year of 2037). One day, decades
after this hit the best-seller lists, a young man came over, handing me the cover of the book. It
contained a single page that had not been ripped, the page that had gone missing for all these years.
He said nothing, leaving the cover on my desk, and then, he wandered off. He gave me no name and
no context to his visit. I have, in this version, dispensed with all the days written before 2037, as I do
know the readers want to get straight to the action, that may or may not explain the events that took
place in 2037. My name is John, and I won´t reveal my last name since I deserve no credit for what is
not my creation (even though much elaborated conspiracy theories will have it so).
Matheus Ervall

Mirror, Mirror
Wednesday, 16th November 2037

Mirror, Mirror: am I a loving person?

Or do I merely love the idea of being a loving person?

Be once more a mirror into all those hidden corners of my soul, just like you were so long
ago. I understand that I may no longer deserve your attention. Seven years ago, I left you to
collect dust in some forgotten drawer, and now you are so dusty that I can no longer see
myself in you - Please, forgive me! I was in love, so very much in love…
Wait just a minute. My window is open, and I hear the cacophony of cars
growling in the streets. I want to be alone with you, like in a catholic confession booth -
knowing that silence will be the mother of truth.

Ok, I have now closed the window. The New York lights were glistening in damp November
darkness, reflecting wandlike on the small pools that lay by the road and all things made of
brick and cement sweats coldly in the dark. Usually, I would not find November this poetic,
do you get a sense of what is going on? I feel trapped in the good ole ´girl meets boy story´
once more, this one will not be of the ordinary kind. So, let me jump straight into the mud,
and give you a Dramatis Personae of my life at this present moment:

Phantoms of my past:
Him 0.0: Daddy, dearest. Made my heart dry as a raisin when he left me.
Him 1.0: My first love, shattered that dried up raisin to pieces.

Present actors:
Mother – the gloomy shadow of love´s brutality, the pit that awaits me?
Him 2.0: the antagonist, fully armored and shielded against love (or so it seems).
Me: Your Jennifer, the protagonist (can any person be anything else in their tale?).
Love: A double-edged sword with no handle, will it serve the protagonist or the antagonist?

(we shall not name the “him(s)” by their names, or old scars might come to bleed once more!)
Matheus Ervall

Earlier this morning, when I was commuting to the University of Columbia, my heart was
light as a canary, bursting with love for all passengers of this strange train called “life” - yes,
even the obnoxious young men pole dancing to their rap music, their feet kicking high up in
the air! Nothing could touch me. This morning my heart could contain them all.
Later, in biology class – yes, I have traded the “ought” of political science with to the
“is” of hard science – I find him 2.0´s voice dripping venom into my heart when he gives me
a long monologue on the brain´s capacity for make-belief, the sugarcoated representation of
the World we project to allow us love our fellow man, and to coat that cake; how there is little
to no love left in the heart of one who has seen what people truly are like, down to their
bones.
Wind forward three hours, I am now taking the ride home, and it is as if I have become
exorcized with the spirit of my new lover. I feel his gravity in every turn the train makes. My
fellow commuters suddenly looked so flat, so vile, so predictable.
Ever witnessed the World mirrored back at you from the window of a train as it enters
a tunnel? People become these lifeless things; phantom-selves, with eyes stuck to
entertainment devices shining back in blue, their souls are imprisoned by hedonistic
“freedoms” – dimensions where nothing TRULY feels. They are like laboratory mice
propelled to act according to the lowest common denominator, each inside their glass vessels
where nothing can touch them, blinded by a World of triviality – miniature dopamine spikes
occuring between every breath!
Should I now ask: wait a minute, am I not, also, part of this World? A fellow shadow-
spectator in Plato´s cave?
Yes, my reflection on that windowpane was just as ghostlike: 90s techno music was
banging through my headphones, anything to escape the boredom that comes from a loveless
state, until the visual World seemed to become decoded into pixels. This dreadful and
monochrome life was much like the loading screen when the internet connection dies or a
queue to an amusement park ride. When we turn on the news, what do we hope to see, truly?
We long for the World to be burning, or else it bores us to death, and we direct our attention
elsewhere. This burning desire for ACTION that had momentarely struck my nervous system,
I wondered if this is the way Him 2.0 always sees the World? The long shadowland cast
between dopamine spikes, the longing for katharsis, uncaring for anyone´s feelings. Men in
my life, from my father to my lovers, have especially inclined to see this World of shadows,
may I include the white-bearded all-father in the sky too? - The Big Bang makes me suspect
he truly was a “he” after all!
Matheus Ervall

The male climax must be the reason, 2 seconds of explosive pleasure, that requires
little foreplay and no consideration.
My headphone´s batteries suddenly died. I glanced away from the window, to see once
more with female eyes - yes, call me misandric, I don´t care! My sight rested on a lonely, old
man sitting across me, a white-bearded prophet summoned, in flesh and blood, straight from
the bible. He had barely been visible in the mirrored flatland: a non-event, fading colors,
almost transparent, turning into a statist in the background. It was when I glimpsed into his
eyes, and reflected myself in them, that I felt my heart suddenly swelling up with love for this
stranger. Hos strange it is to jump between states of consciousness…though, the vision of the
window remains relevant: what if a person is stuck forever with this flat vision of his fellow
passenger? What if HE - in every shape and form - has never truly seen the World? Could I
cure him of his blindness?
Ok, enough of HIM 2.0 (I need to get a grip on myself). My momentarely adopted
grandfather had wrinkled copper-red skin, much like those magnificent pictures of Grand
Canyon taken from an airplane, dried up rivers finding their deltas around a pair of sky blue
lakes. An emotional earthquake seemed to take place within him, eyes revealing so much
pain, such loneliness. I instinctively stroked his cheek, and he gave me his arm, as he was
about to leave, as they were calling out his station. I dug my eyes deep into his soul, and
donated a smile - No, that is narcissistic! - He was the one to bestow me with a smile, using
only his naked humanity. We wandered, arm in arm, like an odd couple towards the sliding
doors, and when I turned and embraced him, he burst into tears, and so did I, so did I! Oh,
gentle heart, bless those men who turned theirs to stone, for they do not know what they have
sold, in some transaction, to not crumble before a harsch reality! That old man must have
been there like some invisible treasure, well-hidden in monochrome life. Now the ice-wall
between two strangers melted into rivers of tears down our cheek. Not a word ever uttered
between us when he left me there with his walking stick clanking on granite, to once more be
turned invisible among the mass of zombies roaming by.

Later, phoning him about this (non) event, you know what HIM 2.0 told me (surely to free
himself from my nagging voice)? That this was a perfect showcase of female narcissism – that
the motivation behind every virtuous act is a manifestation of our to need to feel good about
ourselves. Now, I am all alone with you, so, tell me truthfully: Mirror, Mirror…am I a loving
person? Or is it just that beautiful reflection of myself that I love?
Matheus Ervall

Thursday, 17th November

Mirror, Mirror…Who is this man with his back turned against me? I am writing in such a
haste, scribbling silently, so I won´t wake him. His ash blond hair fluffy and stirring as I
breath against it, my fingers search out secret patterns on the terrifying tattoo on his back, is
this the maze into his heart? – I will keep the tattoo´s content a secret, for now.

He is so distant from me already. Is he already dreaming of someone else? His

sweat, though, is still warm on my body, flowing like a hot delta through my neck and my
breasts. We lie close to a battered refrigerator, it rumbles and groans as if a dying cat was
trying to break loose, everything wild and exciting about him when he was close, becomes
gloomy and oppressive as soon as he is distant.

So, how did I get here, on the floor of this dim and musty tropical mancave?
Please do not judge me now…but his home is a cannabis greenhouse plantation. I see my
dress nestled, creased and stained, between the indigo plants. Ok, I shall describe what took
place only some minutes ago, while every sensation is still well alive within me:

I can’t recall any foreplay, my mind is a blank slate before his hands fondled my
naked body underneath the turquoise crepe dance dress. My legs are made of springs as they
crumble and float by his touch. He pins me to the refrigerator (here it excites me), I lick his
ears, while I feel it vibrating against my buttocks. My legs tie a knot around his waist,
buckling his belt with one hand, holding to his solid neck with the other one, while he rolls
my long auburn hair around his left hand, just like a boxer would before a fight. I feel how he
pulls my hair, electricity crawling up my neck, a pang of sweet pain as he synchronizes the
pulls with his thrusts, entering deep inside me. My dress gets pulled up to my chest, as his
right-hand gropes and squeezes my left breast. I am dizzy, my newly cut hair is now all a
mess, glued by sweat to my face. We end up on his floor, were we roll around in a long wet
kiss. As he enters deeper, his cannabis plantation becomes a green blur. We are in the jungle,
for all I know, and he splits me open, finishing me there. I see myself parted in two. I can´t
think, with my left brain scattered in pieces among the plants. I can almost see that phantom-
me fading away – but then! I see you; Mirror, Mirror written in golden letters, distinguished
from all the green is your glorious vermilion cover. You must have fallen from my purse
during the lovemaking. I want you to make me wholesome again, make sense of what the hell
I am doing here?
Matheus Ervall

I sense the smell of girl perfumes unknown to me…mingling with the humid
smell of cannabis. I can´t…write any longer, my fingers too tense, instead will record future
conversations with my wristwatch, need to make sense of this when NOT under his spell!

Ok, I am now writing from my apartment. After making love, I went out to the balcony to
absorb the last winter light – such abominable weather! His balcony jutted out from a
precipice above a beach, the sea was revolting under rolling clouds that were darker than coal
smoke. Small drops of rain shot down like ice bullets against my naked skin. Back inside,
shivering, I take his only bedsheet to cover both of us on the floor. He wakes with a look of
surprise to see ME there.

“Which one were you dreaming about?” I ask.

“You have these wild and startled eyes, like some jaguar´s eyes, studying me
from the dark, you always take me by surprise.”

His upper body reaches over me for a wine bottle and some joints under his bed.
He lights one and buries it in my mouth. Obediently, I inhale and exhale.

“I was just writing about you in my diary; it made me sound foolish, almost in
love.”

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT KNOW WHY I REVEALED THIS.

He turned and smiled, “Should I be worried?”

“I am recording this; I will do a close reading of you, later on, that is; when I am
not under your spell.”

“Sure…but if you record it, I need to read it later, I want to see my spell seen
from the other side.” By reflex I nod. Another mistake. Where was my left brain hiding?

“My father was a magician, you know? We had this secret pact, he would tell
me the secret behind every trick, and then we would laugh together at fools acting like
mannequins, our primary target was always mum.”

“What, like tricks you do on birthday parties?” He coughed out smoke.

“Cannabis must have clouded your mind, why are you taking everything I say
literally? My father was an adman, remember? That is, the only kind of artist who makes the
Matheus Ervall

entire World his artwork, the way he loved to present himself. His final trick was becoming
the bunny that vanished in his own hat, he left me all alone with my mano-depressive mother,
and went on to play tricks on a beautiful Hollywood actress 30 years younger than him.”

“Sounds like a good trick for a man to have up his sleeves.” He smiles,
sardonically.

“Ok, just fuck and smoke for the rest of your life, that’s your big plan?”
He stared at me, eyes sharpening, a question therein: why had she to start a
conflict just this day? – or, maybe: why is my cannabis not doing its wonders on her?
“Let me remind you that my passionate indifference is what lured you in. You
now belittle fucking and smoking as if there was some great battle to be fought out there.
Well, four years of dragging my ass to philosophy classes teached me otherwise. I have my
citizen wage, my lovers, my clients, I need nothing more in life,” he laid hand hand to my
breast, then said; “paradise is mine…” His eyes were shining, as if he spoke, entirely without
sarcasm, of some great dream he was living.

“Citizen wage…automation…overabundance of consumer goods and no jobs.

Young uneducated men thereby kept in check to not start riots, a weekly handout was just
enough to stay put dog! Go play videogames or something!”

“What, you want us to turn into mad wolves once more? Truly? Is not this

masquerade enough?

I sighed, patted his wild hair into order, condescendingly, but it instantly
returned to its original fluffy state as if by some innate reflex, “Hegel and Marx were right
about one thing; history is deterministic, whatever opinion we have about it is pretty useless,
the train´s tracks have already been laid, you were destined to become this…thing. “

“We are studying biology now. What does it tell us? The potency nature, the
relaxation of the endocannabinoid system when smoking or the oxytocin molecule after a
good fuck, you think an abstract idea floating around in some metaphysical hyperspace can
compare to it? I am pretty happy to be far, far away from philosophy class…please do not
bring those ghosts back into my humble adobe!” He said.

“So, did you even learn anything there? Or were you only seeking potential
buyers to your cannabis ´thing´?”
Matheus Ervall

“You know what?” He inhaled deeply, the embers glowing between his fingers,
“the entire enterprise of philosophy seemed to be about tiptoeing around the monkey-business
at the core of it all: the fact that we are but shadows of irrational needs inherited from the
animal kingdom. Even the name philosophy, love for wisdom? Who loves wisdom? The
secret purposes of this chemical factory, our body, is the reason why you are sleeping beside
me. There is no damn wisdom behind it; you knew I was no good from the minute you saw
me! It was always at the core of it all the selfish gene forcing us to do dumb shit!”

“I know the reason for why I am here…” I looked tenderly into his eyes.

“It is boredom, my dear. You are but an adrenaline junkie, but why? We can
rationalize some deeper purpose to irrational needs, but only as an afterthought. In truth,
philosophy died right around the time we got tools to study the brain. Some are horrified
about how banal we are, so they try to forget it by dreaming big, like the grand philosophers
of old. They simply can´t turn these feeble dreams into reality, science forever builds the
framework to how far man can dream, and that framework grows ever more rigid. In the
meantime, your dad gave people what they truly wanted, imagine a philosopher trying to sell
anything to anyone, even to another philosopher? Anything but powerful weed that is…it was
like giving the students, and professors, a free-card to dream!” He gurgled a sinister laugh.

“So, I guess you sold more cannabis to your fellow philosophy students than in
biology class, huh?”

“Sure, and I fucked more too, I only have you in biology class, I am getting
slack, almost monogamous…shameful stuff!”

“Our olfactory ability is more sensitive than yours; I smell two or three different
girls in this room! Maybe you forgot them?”

“Just following my appetite, dear. We are but shadows to simple biological

needs, but none of its horrible effects’ needs be imposed on reality; build muscles but not for
war; simulate war through games; eat sugar and fat, not for survival; fuck, but not to create
life. We lost the taste for danger, and we do not want any real stakes now, do we? Love was
ever one of those horrible illusions cast by nature, it was ever about the child… forcing us to
feel some higher meaning to this pitiful man-woman drama!”

“A coward with big words…” I sighed, “you never dare do anything but
philosophize without acting, thereby, never truly believing in the conclusions you reach!” I
Matheus Ervall

stared deep into the green flame shooting from his iris; they never got slack with the cannabis,
they were right there with me, ready to attack me.
“I have come to terms with being that coward…” he stared at the roll between
his fingers, “even dope, it used to mean something, you know? Young friends and lovers
would smoke it, one last night of dreaming, before traveling to a living nightmare toget a
bullet through their balls and lie there bleeding out their nuts in some strange jungle.
Now…why do we smoke it? In any case,” he yawned loudly, stretching his arms, “we do not
want to impose meaning on reality if that is the prize, do we? Life is either meaningless or just
too damn meaningful. So, to smoke or not to smoke? Does it even matter? Your turn to
philosophize, princess…” He handed me the cannabis.

“I do know though why you smoke; it got a deeper meaning; it is self-

medication, your what was it called, the genetic marker? You are simply refusing to
acknowledge depth within you.”

“MAOA-2r genotype, the extreme variant of the warrior gene, my incurable lust
for mayhem. The 3R allele would not cause damage if a man has a benevolent childhood, but
my 2-repeat allele destined me to antisocial behavior, nurture matters none.”

“Yes, but you try to take control over your shadow, what if you could do the
same with love?”

“Well, I do have a rational side, I do not want to end in prison like f…” – he
hesitated, as if not wanting to invite ghosts from his past into the discussion, “but when it
comes to fucking it is all supply and demand, and there is no demand for love no more since
we do not suffer…the consequences at least not for those who can get laid easily. We were
designed to spread that seed, not to glue to one womb. Besides, I lack the constitution for
love.”
“Yes, but…”
“Here comes the but…”
“BUT, if we could impose love on the World, this time by free will, and not as
victims of circumstance. Love, just like Epicurus would drink water, mindful of the glory of
every chemical reaction, and not needy, like some wanderer of the desert, would it not be
some higher love, one worthy of exploring?”
“Why would I do that? Love is, at its very core, a mirroring of suffering,
multpilying it, not diminishing it!” I looked away, but his hand turned my chin back to his
Matheus Ervall

gaze, “Ok, let me show you love!”

I hand him the weed, thinking he will only return to the art of lovemaking, he
stroked my hair…gazed into my eyes, almost lovingly. I stroked the sharp edges of his cheek,
careful not to cut myself on those shifting iron plates. Now, he took the wine bottle,
unscrewed it with his teeth, and spat the cork, snapped my bedsheet away from me, rushing
towards the balcony.

“Hey!” I scream.
He opens the balcony, and I see the blue sheet vanish like some diving bird of
prey. He commands the operative system to shut down the heat-system, snow drivel blows
into the room. I cover my naked body with arms only, trembling like a winter leave.
“Will you not come to me, and lovingly embrace me? Or do I really need to
come to you?” I say.
“I was not the one crying out for love…”
He stands there, against the cold drivels of snow, embracing the cold, waving his
hand like some mad conductor before his orchestra. He liked to play this game; he blew life
into an angry ocean and then came as a ship to save me, and I once more succumbed to play
my part: we embraced, our flesh melting into one, so hot – just like the heat of a campfire can
only truly be felt when surrounded by the cold and dark. But his heart drummed to another
rhythm altogether, so tranquil, two beatings in my chest would count as a single one in his.
Two wet cheeks touching each other, but his cheeks were only wet because of my tears - now,
will I be forced to let him read my girlish drivel tomorrow?
We kept dancing, off-rhythm, he was humming some melancholic tune, while
snow swirled around our feet. He poured wine over our mouth, taking loud gulps, his throat´s
muscles at work like a thirsty man in a desert, it flows down like blood down our naked
bodies,
“You had enough beauty, you…vile creature?”
“I will never have enough.” He whispers, and I get goose-bumps (I get it once
more, now, listening to the audiotape), it sounds horrible to my ears.
Matheus Ervall

Friday, November 18th

I hand you over to the enfant terrible before biology class. I sit next to Sarah, her red hair
swirled as she turns towards me, with eyes full of mischief; “You´re crazy to let him read
your diary! You can´t fall in love with this guy, Jen…”

“I am not in love…” – a lie.

“Look, some guys are meant to be no more than a fling. This guy has…” Her
eyes wildly darting from right to left, she whispered, “slept with two other girls in this class,
besides you…open your legs to them, but do NOT open your heart! They are vampires!” she
giggled.

“We are honest to each other, he tells me of his other girls,” I uttered with a
whimper, half a lie to save face: he never told me that he was sleeping around with girls in
OUR CLASS.

We were interrupted as the professor walked in, his light-blue shirt got dark
stains between his arms and close to the belt, where his belly was hanging out. He went
through with his rituals; remove glasses, wipe them, drop his coat by the desk, put up his belt,
all done while staring downwards at his shoes. He chuckled, mumbling; “So warm in
here…so warm…” then adjusted his glasses back to his nose. Only 32, he was the youngest
professor in Columbia University, but he had entered prematurely deep into middle age; the
soaked thin hair combed in sleazy lines all over his bald head - it glistened under the light,
sweat continually running down his cheek as if he had bathed in butter beforehand.

. The subject was epigenetic – the most interesting, and mind-blowing sub-
department in all biology: mind´s power to shape matter, our ability to reprogram of our
hardware (not the operative system!) – was made into an utterly dull lecture on alterations of
ATCGs. He would mumble to himself, scribbling pecks of dots leading nowhere, Mazes only
his mind could decipher, not even his fellow professors could understand his secret algorithms
made of four variables, it was like learning programming without an intermediary code-
language to translate the 1s and 0s. We called him ´professor ATCG,´ and some called him
worse things.

I would glance over to HIM 2.0, checking if he was reading my diary, or

looking at some other girl besides me, or - foolish girl! - If he would glance back at me. His
Matheus Ervall

eyes intently followed every step by the professor, when everyone else was distracted, how
peculiar.

My wicked friend Sarah whispered to me, ´watch this! ´ and she leaned down to
reveal her cleavage, the professor caught a glimpse of her, a slight glitch occurred in his
predictable patterns, he twitched, eyes blinking stupidly at nothing, then, urgently, returned to
the formulas on the blackboard – the one place where he was safe from harm.

After class I meet up with HIM 2.0, you came back to my purse in all your glorious red.

“So, we are all a series of ´hims´ to you? Good, there was only one decimal, or I
would feel rather ordinary.”

I laughed.

“And, my World looks like phantoms mirrored against the glass, huh? Going a
bit too far with the power of metaphors there, don´t you think?”

“Metaphors are the only tool available for us to approximate the unknown; you
have chosen to remain that way.” He smiled at that.

“By the way, why are you so interested in professor ATCG?”

“Look, the man is a savant…” he came closer, whispering; “and I am fortunate

enough to be his pot-dealer and…his dating coach - sadly, I am failing, bigtime, on this side-
project.”

“Pot dealer to HIM? And dating coach! He might die from a nervous
breakdown!”
“You speak truer than you know, a high-degree autist with social phobia in a
class full of beautiful girls whispering, making fun of him, you think he takes it lightly? I
admit my Indica Powerhouse might have made matters worse …he has a lot on his mind, you
know?”
“Like what?”

“Oh, that is confidential! I have some codes too, you know? Just keep an eye on
him. He might be the answer to some of your questions, maybe even all of them!”

Thus he left me there, no glance backward, and no good-byes. What game was
Matheus Ervall

he playing now? I opened my notebook; he had wounded you with his careless handwriting:

Baby, this is not your Harlequin romance. Do not try to figure me out; I am a dead-end. Wrong
genes. If you want to have fun, let´s have fun. Just do not build your hopes up for
some…happy ending.

A miserable day. It would only get worse as this was Friday – that is: dutiful daughter day –
that is: the secret 8th gate of depression-hell unknown to Dante - prepare yourself; you
remember mother, don´t you?

She had ordered Chinese for dinner and prepared overcooked rice to give the illusion of a
home-cooked meal (I guess). You haven´t seen her in a while, seven more years living inside
a bottle of vinegar has not improved her condition, not the least bit.

“Your father´s Alzheimer is evolving…” was her first spoken words, inhaling
and exhaling cigarette smoke with a nervous frenzy. She must have been rehearsing some
final vengeful meeting with my father. My mother had been nineteen years his junior when
she fell for his sweet lies – or he for hers? And still, he later left her for an actress eleven
years younger than her. His first wife had also been precisely eleven years older than my
mother, so, what comes around goes around.

“Mum, you cannot go on living like this! “

“Well, Jennifer dear” – knowing fully well how little dear I was to
her – “Please, do not pretend to care for me; your mind is somewhere else, and you clearly
do not want to be here!”
That was true, I get this lump in my throat whenever I am here, the smell of
cigarette suffocates me, she tries to get away with it by spraying perfume everywhere, and
then some incense, but it only gets worse - an unsavory blend of strong smells.
She was now crying in the palms of her hands. “Oh, I am so sick, so
hurt, so alone..” I was almost guilt-struck by her half-true theatricals.
“Yet here…I am!” I answered.
“You are not here…I can see how your face is flushed, and your eyes…oh, so
Matheus Ervall

dreamy! Would you be such a darling as not to deny that you are in love??“ I blushed, and her
eyes pierced through me, “Oh, poor my dearest…dearest…I bet it is someone just like your
father; you were always daddy´s little girl,” her eyes suddenly burn, “you never loved me!”
She spits those words at my face – quite literally so, for they came with a rain of spittle.
“But worry not my dear, for history is cyclic, we dream and then crash down.
Look around you; this ruin was you have all deserted me, might become your future as well.”
Her voice was so hoarse and tense. Can you believe she once an aspiring actress, a woman
known for her feminine mystique?
“I say this to warn you, as every loving mother should.” I shivered inside only
by those last words, the angry emphasize on the word ´loving´.
“We chase our own demise in some selfish man´s abysmal heart and be trapped
there forever in amber. They say Freud has been disproven, yet, I see him everywhere.” She
stroked my hair; the faked understanding smile was now making her face look like a Disney
witch. I averted my eyes, but could find no place for them to rest, a stained lightbulb giving
that vomit-inducing orange light, the shadows growing from corners, the smell of old clothes
collecting dust under the sofa bed, can I even recall her in full glory?
My childhood seemed gone, their memories traveling away in a high-speed train
to some surreal dreamscape where there was someone else living through them, not me.

“But time will come for them too, you know? Strong, selfish men that we cannot
resist, they turn weak …his pretty young wife now put him in a caring home full of robots to
“care” for him, he is going into that space where all light slowly fades…and there he will be
all alone, forgetful and forgotten.” Her smiling wrinkles became so very deep as if painted in
ink. Within her eyes, I suddenly caught a twinkling star, drowned in vinegar.

I rush to the window, opening it, she growls that she cannot stand the cacophony outside. I
stick out my head, sweet polluted air enters my nostrils, and the clamor of the traffic jam is
like music to my ears. I am afraid to catch another glimpse at the woman that gave me life. I
gaze up; imagining my father, all alone, at the wrong side of karma, staring at the same sky.
My lover(s) too. I might be destined to be betrayed by them all. The stars were fading, like
candles lost in a storm. Love must be just like stars to these men; entropy writes the destiny of
all things, so, why not look for the eternal dark instead?
Matheus Ervall

I come home exhausted. Drinking red wine to have bravery to write and analyze myself with
honesty, then I drink some more wine to wash away the conclusions reached. I find every
passion within me contradicting the laws of logic – unsolvable, like Gödel’s theorem - yet it
breaks through, and the levees always collapses. Is this my life? An eternal journey inwards,
only to find chaos and dismay. I turn the page to find Him 2.0´s handwriting:

PS: one more thing, professor ATCG has deciphered the secret formula of love. There is a
quest for you out there, and you will only have to pass an ogre to get to the elixir. Figure that
out by yourself…

Mirror, Mirror…what is this?

Matheus Ervall