Jinno Shotoki 1339
A clown stares at a mirror.
The mirror is seven metres away. The clown’s image is distended and stretched. It appears inhuman. His clothes are ragged and slashed, a misery lining his face. The mirror itself is cracked and crumbling.
The clown holds his fears close and steps closer to the mirror.
Perhaps he is now six or five metres away. Now maybe four.
The reflection has fixed its bent spine and crooked neck. His tie and braces are threadbare and splitting, a weathered face stares back. The mirror is stained and scratched.
The clown stills his terror and steps closer to the mirror.
Now he is three or two metres away. And now one.
His double has straightened, no longer warped, but leaning perhaps. His baggy pants are silver-haired, his make-up run fast into wrinkles. The mirror is blemished some, with handprints and smudges.
Now the clown comes closer, the closest he has ever been.
Trembling, the mirror is but an inch from the end of his nose.
The image is now his reflection. His clothes and faded and worn, a gentle sadness caresses his face. The mirror is polished smooth and shines with a light of uncertain origin.
‘The mirror hides nothing. It shines without a selfish mind. Everything good and bad, right and wrong, is reflected without fail. The mirror is the source of honesty because it has the virtue of responding according to the shape of objects.’
Jinno Shotoki 1339
