Before reading today’s poem, I’d like to share a part of my story. Perhaps it will help you better understand the context behind this letter.

I had a turbulent childhood. I never stayed in one place for very long. I lived almost like a nomad.

I have no memories of my first six years. I was told that after I was born, my mother lived with my paternal grandparents for about a year. Once she had finished breastfeeding me, she left to join my father in the capital, leaving me with my grandmother. It seems I lived there until I was six years old. My parents visited us often, although I no longer remember who was present or absent during those years.

Then my mother came to take us to live with her. From that point on, my memories begin to appear, though only in fragments. I lived with my mother, my father, and my older brother. My mother wasn’t around very much. She left early every morning to run her business in the city’s main market and returned home late in the evening. During the day, my brother and I stayed with one of her sisters.

Then, one evening, when I was nine years old, she became seriously ill. Our aunt came to pick us up, and we were sent to live with our maternal grandparents. That was the moment my story with my brother truly began. By a twist of fate, I ended up in the same classroom same grade as him, despite our three-year age difference.

Everything changed.

I lived with my grandparents for about a year and a half. Then my mother recovered and came to take us, and we moved somewhere else. We lived there for two years before she became ill again, and we had to move in with our paternal grandparents for six months. After that, we returned to live with our parents for another year before moving back once again to our grandparents’ house.

By the time I reached adolescence, I remember telling myself:

No more moving. I chose to stay with my grandma.

I never really felt a particularly strong connection with either my mother or my father’s presence. Their absence didn’t affect me as much as one might expect. I suppose I had simply become used to it.

But it was different with my older brother.

He was the only person who was always there through every move, every change, every new beginning. He is the most constant figure in my childhood memories.

And our relationship was anything but simple.

A mixture of rivalry, brotherhood... and, at times, something that felt almost parental.

This letter became the longest one I have ever written—more than 1,900 words. I discovered that I had more to say to my brother than I ever did to either of my parents. It was also the hardest letter to write, and, even now, the one I feel the most anxious about sharing.

To keep the rhythm of this series, I’ll be sharing it in two parts.

As you read it, I simply ask that you resist the urge to judge or take sides.

This letter is messy—just as the emotional turmoil I felt while writing it was.

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December 16, 2025

Brother,

These words are for you,
even though I strongly doubt you will ever read them.

I will not force fate by sending them to you.
We still carry too many tangled feelings between us.

But I hope that one day,
the universe will somehow lead you to these words.

And if/when that day comes,
I hope—
yes, I deeply hope—
that you will take the time to read them slowly,
to feel the weight of every word,
to see my sincerity through all this chaos.

There are four boys in our family,
but you and I are the only two
who share exactly the same roots.

Our paths,
our destinies,
our lives became intertwined
without our consent,
without any regard for how we felt.

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We were close once.
At least, I believed we were.

Perhaps I was still too young,
too innocent,
too much of a child
to see the distance that already existed between us.

As far back as I can remember,
we were always together.

And even when life’s troubles came
and our family had to separate,
the two of us were always kept together.

We grew up together,
were raised together,
and did almost everything together.

When did distance find its way between us?

Perhaps it was then.

It is the only moment that comes to mind.

Maybe I am wrong
to think that our drifting apart
began when we ended up
in the same class in elementary school.

Because from that moment on,
you no longer had anything that was yours alone.

Your social life and mine
became completely intertwined.

And yet, you were never a bad student.

You were hardworking,
disciplined,
intelligent.

It was not your fault,
nor was it mine,
but the fault of adults
and of a culture still bound by old ways.

You passed your exams brilliantly,
but through negligence,
our parents did not claim your report card in time.

It is crazy how a simple piece of paper
can influence someone’s destiny.

And me?
I was simply lucky.

Oh, brother,
how much pressure did you have to carry
all those years?

You never complained.

But what older brother wants to find himself
in the same class
as his annoying little brother,
three years younger?

Our parents treated us differently.

The same classroom,
yet separate set of tools for each of us.

And still,
they never lightened your burden.

Every time you tried to escape,
to choose an activity for yourself,
I was forced into it as well.

I never wanted to study English.

I loved Spanish much more.

But I could never say no to Father.
You know that.

You were my older brother,
yet you lost every right that came with it:

your authority,
your privileges,
your chance.

An older brother walks ahead
and guides those who follow.

But fate forced us
to walk side by side.

I forgot that too.
And I challenged your authority.
I disrespected you.

I even fought you once.

You knew how to assert your strength.
You gave me a good beating.
I deserved it, I know that now.

But all of that—
that’s normal between brothers,
isn’t it?

I have always admired you, you know.
I was simply too proud to admit it.

Growing up beside you
felt suffocating to me as well.

You were like a warden,
the guardian of my prison.

I know you did not choose that role.

Our parents,
often absent,
placed that responsibility on your shoulders.

They forced me to stick to you,
to follow you,
to pester you.

You must have truly hated
that absurd situation.

Now I finally understand, my brother.

I understand that perhaps
you saw me as a rival.

Maybe.

It is only an impression.

But I remember
that you always tried to be the best of us.

And I must admit
that I did not make it easy for you.

You were good
at everything you did.

I was too,
in my own way.

You were a dedicated student,
hardworking, disciplined.

I was the opposite.

I rarely held a book,
and I seldom did my homework.

For everyone,
your success was a certainty,
while mine remained an uncertainty.

Yet I never failed.

Do you know why?

Always right behind you,
sometimes even surpassing you.

Do you know how?

It was because of you.

Nature gifted me
with a good auditory memory.

When you read,
when you studied,
people could hear you
from the other end of the neighborhood.

All I had to do
was listen to you,
and I would remember everything.

I succeeded
because of you.

So know this, my brother:

I am truly
grateful to you.

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People compared us constantly—

our grades,
our behavior,
our respectfulness.

They even thought we were twins,

because of our height,
our activities,
despite the three years gap between us.

We were compared far too often.
An unavoidable situation.

And how I hated that.

I imagine you did too,
didn’t you?

I did everything
to be seen for myself,
not as a reflection of you.

You were calm and serious.

I acted like a fool.
I wandered.
A rebel at heart.

You adapted to the system.
I challenged it.

I only wanted
to become fully myself.

To be continued….

Mirror Question:

Growing up, were you ever compared to someone else— or asked to carry a role that was never really yours?

How do you think that shaped the way you see yourself today?

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More from Thw Letters to My Family:

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If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With Clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

what can I say about you?
In my heart,
you carry the dignity of a king.

You were not always there,
not physically,
but I always felt your presence.
Despite the distance,
you knew how to make yourself present.

You taught me so much:
the value of hard work,
the wisdom of minding my own business,
of staying out of other people’s affairs,
of not judging them.

You knew when to speak,
when to use the rod of correction.
You knew how to inspire fear,
but even more, respect.
You knew when to be a father,
and when to simply be a friend.

The greatest lessons in life,
I learned from you.

When Mom punished me
and I refused
to eat the food she had cooked,
you punished me a second time.

Not out of cruelty,
but to teach me to respect
the value of Mom’s effort.

Anger should not take away gratitude,
nor our appreciation
for the efforts of others.

You never let us suffer.
You gave us
what you
had never received.

You believed in education
and made it a priority.

I can still hear Grandpa
saying that education
was nothing but a waste of money.

But you,
you wanted us to become more
than what you had been:
educated men,
not simply people
working in the fields.

Yet you never looked down on any kind of work.

You taught us to live simply.

You wanted us to be capable
of living—or surviving—
through any situation,
in any society.

You were not perfect either.

You forced me to study,
to learn everything
my brother wanted to learn:
music, computers, English...

I understand now,
and I respect your intention.

You wanted to give
my brother and me
the same tools
to face life,
you used to say.

It was admirable.
I know that.

And those skills
have truly served me well.

But I wanted, at least,
to have a say.

Your words left their mark on me.
Some of them hurt.

But you did not act
out of cruelty.

No one taught you
how to be a father either.

You did a good job.

Today, your story inspires me:
your resilience, your perseverance,
your courage and your kindness,
despite all the blows life dealt you.

Sometimes I tell myself
that if you had possessed
the knowledge I have today,
you would be the richest man
in the family.

And yet,
you are the one who gave me
the opportunity to gain that knowledge.

I intend to use it
to honor you,
to make you proud.

You know,
people often hear me say:
“My father taught me...”

I even connect you
to lessons
I learned on my own.

Because within me,
in every circumstance,
I always find
some piece of your wisdom
to guide me.

Despite our differences,
you were the one
I felt closest to
in our family.

Sometimes, we would simply laugh,
have fun,
and forget the difference
between father and son.

I followed you everywhere
like a little tail.

They called you gran plantè,
and me ti plantè.

Because we were like old friends.

Not just a father and a son,
but above all,
a father and his son.

Dad,
my heart is filled with your values,
your lessons, your principles, your hopes.

I can only thank God
for choosing you
to be my old man.

And I am grateful,
proud to be
your rebellious son.

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🪞 Mirror Question:

Who is the person whose lessons still guide your life today... even when they are no longer beside you?

Leave a comment

CTA

If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Leave a comment

I realized that we share different relationships with each of them—and from each relationship, we may inherit something different.

Once again, I ask you to resist the urge to judge.

Simply read these words for what they are: another voice on the path toward healing the inner child.

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December 2025

TO MY FATHER

Father, oh, my father,
My hero, a pillar in my universe.
To me, you have always been more than a father.
A friend, a mentor, someone I could confide in.

I have never cared much for superstars,
They probably couldn’t care less about my troubles.
But you and Mother—you are my greatest stars.
Always there, no matter the moment.

I hear your voice despite the distance.
Your teachings, your advice, your guidance.
You have always known how to find the right words,
Words that lift me even through life’s most unfair moments.

The adult in me is filled with admiration.
But the child still carries accusations.
Today, I write them down to ease the tension
Between the little boy and the man still under construction.

Father, is it my memory or yours that is failing us?
Today, you tell me I have always been brave,
Yet I remember you calling me lazy so many times.
Should I trust my memories or your words?

I remember one moment in particular:
You, me, and my cousins, in the mountains.
From a cliff, you all jumped,
But I was too afraid.
I refused to cross that edge.

I no longer remember exactly what you said.

But I remember the feelings.

The shame.
The anger.
The humiliation.

A wound that stayed with me for a long time.

And yet, I never held it against you.
Perhaps because my heart was grateful to you.

Like Mother, you told that story too often:
How, when she tried to end the pregnancy,
You did everything you could
So I would live to see the present.

But do you know
what a fucking mess
the two of you created inside me?

The child did not need that truth.

You were good parents,
despite your flaws.

I could not hate you.
I could not hate Mother either.

I felt suffocated whenever I was close to you.

Being myself
felt too heavy around you.

Perhaps that explains
why I always preferred living far away.

I love you deeply.

But I breathe better
when I am far from you.

And yet, Father,
you have always been my best friend.

People say you are either a parent
or a friend to your child.
That you cannot be both.

But somehow,
you were both to me.

It is crazy.

Even today,
I still cannot explain how.

Know this, Father:

You remain my first mentor.

You never had the chance
to pursue great studies,
yet you are a great philosopher of life.

Your life is an example to me.
Your resilience, a true source of motivation.
Your compassion, an essential light.
Your humor, a bandage
for my childhood heart.

If life allowed me
to travel back in time,

I would change nothing.

Perhaps
I would tell you
about the child’s complaints.

Perhaps
we would understand each other
a little better.

Father,

Despite everything,
I am grateful.

Grateful to God
for you and Mother
as my parents.

Know that you both
hold a place of honor

in my heart.

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Mirror Question:

When you think about the people who shaped your childhood, what did each of them leave within you—through their love, their mistakes, or even the distance between you?

And today, what are you choosing to carry forward?

Leave a comment

CTA

If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

To Mother

Mom,

I thank God for giving me you as mother.

You have always been like a lioness
when it came to protecting us,
feeding us,
clothing us,
and raising us.

You were never handed
a manual on how to be a good mother.

Yet you did everything you could
to give us values,
love,
principles,
and strength.

You knew how to make us feel cherished.

It was never perfect,
I know.

But it was enough
that, despite the child’s complaints,
I never truly knew
how to condemn you.

You spoiled us—

or at least,
you spoiled me.

The little pieces of grilled meat
you would give me
while dinner was still cooking.

The sweet, concentrated peas
you knew I loved.

A glass of milk
because I couldn’t stand oatmeal.

Bulgur wheat—
you knew how much I loved eating it.

The little Sobrino chocolate bars
you rewarded us with
for good grades at school.

The list of those little acts of love
goes on and on.

Even as a child,
you were never a princess to me.

You were the queen.
An empress.

Know this:

I am proud
to be
your son.

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Author’s Reflection

As we move through the healing process, looking beyond the wound and revisiting our story through the eyes of an adult, resentment often becomes a little lighter, a little less blinding.

And perhaps that creates space for us to notice what we had overlooked for so long.

Acts of love that once seemed too ordinary to matter.

Small gestures of care that quietly became part of everyday life.

We often remember the smallest disappointments with remarkable clarity, while forgetting the countless acts of love that surrounded them.

🪞 Mirror Question

When you look beyond your childhood wounds, what quiet acts of love begin to come back into focus?

Leave a comment

CTA

If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Dear mother,

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LIKE YOU, BUT NOT LIKE YOU

I want a woman like you, Mother.
Loving, gentle, protective of those she holds dear.
A heart of gold, kind to her children.
A steady foundation for her family.

I want her to be like you.
Independent, full of good faith.
Someone who stays even in times of despair,
Who carries our cross beside me.

I want her to be attentive.
To give love without hesitation.
To be fair, even in adoption.
A strong, kind woman, adorned with passion.

I want her to be like you, and yet, not like you.
Someone who knows how to listen without becoming defensive.
Who chooses understanding before turning away.
Someone who is like you, and even more than you.

I want a balanced love—
One built on dialogue, respect, and passion.
A woman who does not bring our problems before the world,
But works through them in private, without hostility.

I admit it—you remain a model to me, Mother.
Imperfect, like every human being.
Full of strengths and flaws, none of them in vain.
Your life has been a guide, a worthy example.

You are not my past;
You are my foundation.

From you, I am an extension.
Like you, a heart devoted and sincere.
Not like you—better than you,
Something more complete.

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Author’s Note

A parent is more than a parent. They are our first model.

As child, we live under the influence of that model, absorbing its strengths, its fears, its habits, and even its contradictions.

Years later, as adult, we can finally revisit that inheritance and ask:

What do I want to carry forward?

And what ends with me?

Mirror Question:

Which line stayed with you?

Leave a comment

P.S.: Coming this Wednesday:

What if some of our deepest wounds were built around stories that were only half true?

In the next reflection, we explore what the child could not see.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

As you read this poem, I hope you will resist the urge to choose sides. Neither pity me nor condemn my parents. Simply accompany me as I revisit an old wound and help the child within me understand what he could not see at the time.

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Dear Mother,

You are not the most special woman in the world.

But to me, you are, and you always will be.

Your love, your sacrifices, your devotion have shaped my life.
Your corrections and teachings still guide my steps.

In my kingdom, you are the queen.
In my heart, your place is unshakable.
My first love, an irreplaceable pillar.
Your presence flows through me like blood through my veins.

You showed me the way.
Your image became the foundation of my choices.
The love of my dreams feels possible
Because you achieved what once seemed impossible.

And yet, my heart carries complaints.
The child within me brings forth his grievances.

You were never perfect—far from it.
And truthfully, we were never very close.

You were never a bad parent.
I saw your love all the time.
Your worries, your fears for us.
My brothers and I were always protected beneath your watchful eye.

But…

what did you expect the child in me to feel
When I discovered that you wanted a daughter,
Not another son?

You never hid it.
You said it openly.

Often repeating that if you had had a daughter first,
You would never have had another child.

How did you expect the child in me to respond?

My heart never knew what to do with that.
Perhaps that explains the distance between us.

You loved me deeply.
I saw it.
I knew it.

But knowing it was never the issue.

Was your love born from guilt?

My heart choses to believe in your sincerity.

Mother,
I hold nothing against your preferences.
You too have the freedom to be yourself.

What I condemn, perhaps, is your ignorance.
Your parental clumsiness.
Your carelessness.

I do not believe you wanted to hurt me.
I do not believe you meant to cause me pain.

You simply did not know.

And if you did not know,
How can I condemn you?

Yet every time you told that story,
Life lost a little more of its color.

My heart became emptier.
More distant.
More detached.

I was broken.

My confidence was taken from me.

I lived trying not to be a burden.
In silence,
I settled for merely existing.

There were other mistakes.
Perhaps I could find other complaints.
But they feel insignificant in my heart.

Nothing compares to this one.

Know this, Mother:

I have grown.

Today, the adult can see
What the child could never understand.

I am healing.
I am finding my way back to myself.

Oh Mother,
My love for you is undeniable,
Deep,
Sincere,
Beyond comparison.

I never condemned you then,
And I never will.

The child simply needed to speak.
To tell his truth.

To finally let go.

To finally

be

free.

December 2025

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🪞 Mirror Question

What is a wound from your childhood that feels different when you look at it through the eyes of the adult you have become?

Leave a comment

Author’s Note

There are words we do not write because we have something to teach, but because we need to breathe.

Like a deep breath after holding our head underwater for too long, some words are not lessons or wisdom. They are simply a form of release. A form of clarity.

I grew up in a particular family. I cannot complain about a lack of love. I was loved, and I still am. Yet I carried wounds that were born within that same family for many years.

After reading Stillness Is the Key, Ryan Holiday’s invitation to heal the child within stayed with me. These letters were born from that invitation.

I don’t think I could sit in front of my parents and say these words out loud. And even if I spoke them with all the tenderness in the world, I am not sure they would understand them as I intend them.

They would understand the meaning of the words. What I fear they might not understand is the intention behind them. A misunderstanding could create the very distance I hope to heal.

So I write.

Writing gives me a place where I can sit with each member of my family and have the conversations I never learned how to have. It helps me clarify, reassure the child within me, and finally tell him:

“You have been heard, my friend. We can move forward now.”

These letters are not accusations. They were not born from hatred. From anger, perhaps.

But never from hatred.

I love my family deeply. And I know they love me too.

What follows is not an attempt to judge them. It is simply part of my journey toward understanding, healing, and peace.

On Wednesday, I will share the first reflection accompanying this poem. Together, we will explore how childhood wounds can exist even in the presence of love, and how looking at them through the eyes of an adult can sometimes bring a little more clarity to the child we once were.

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If this post brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or pass it along to someone who may need it.

If you would like to support this work, you can leave a tip or become a paid subscriber.

Paid members receive additional resources created to help them better understand themselves, question their assumptions, and move through life with greater clarity and intention.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Support the Room

Refer a friend

Sometimes, that is all it takes for us to create an entire story about someone’s life.

But how often are those stories true?

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I Know Nothing

Oh, how beautiful she is.

She looks like a flower

Lost in this corrupted world.

.

Like the sun,

Her soul seems to shine

With a thousand invisible rays.

.

And I, poor mortal,

Can only imagine

Fragments of her life.

.

I told myself her childhood

Must have been a cradle of serenity —

adorned with happiness,

The kind children inherit

Without ever doubting.

.

Her adolescence,

Without loneliness.

Without wounds.

Surrounded,

protected,

Cherished by loving parents.

.

For what parent would not love

Such an angel?

What king would not protect

a princess so radiant?

.

Yes…

I imagined

she does not merely wear

Beauty upon her face,

But breathes it.

.

That fortune smiles at her each day.

That love bows before her.

.

And I…

I, poor mortal,

Dare not approach.

Afraid of being consumed

By her light.

.

For I believe her

Untouched.

Pristine.

Immaculate.

…

And yet,

I know nothing.

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Author’s Note

I wrote this poem as a tribute to after becoming aware of parts of her childhood and her relationship with her father in one of her poems shared many months ago. Here’s the link of the post in question:

imi

If It Helps Father

This one is for the little girl who ran home from school, breathless with wanting to learn the piano, who began waking an hour before dawn to practice alone…

Read more

5 months ago · 134 likes · 151 comments · imi

And I lost the poem shortly after writing it. To be honest, I never really intended to share it.

But as I continued reading the poems and stories of so many people in this community, I realized how often projection shapes the way we see one another. We see a person and unconsciously begin filling in the blanks.

Starting this Sunday, I will be sharing a series of poems that are more personal and vulnerable than usual. They are unsent letters written to members of my family. In a way, it feels like this might be the right time to share them.

The names mentioned bellow are people whose stories gave me the courage to share pieces of my own past.

So , , , , , and many others... your writing gave me the courage to start this new journey.

Thank you.

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If this post brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or pass it along to someone who may need it.

If you would like to support this work, you can leave a tip or become a paid subscriber.

Paid members receive additional resources created to help them better understand themselves, question their assumptions, and move through life with greater clarity and intention.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Support the Room

Refer a friend

After all, life is always moving. The universe is always changing. Nothing remains exactly as it was.

I have often been told not to doubt myself. Yet I have also been told not to let myself be trapped by the ego.

The ego affirms. It defends. It insists.

But doubt is different, even though it is often seen as a weakness.

So I began to wonder:

What if doubt is not always something to overcome? What if it is one of the mechanisms that allows us to keep evolving, to keep learning, both as individuals and as a species?

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MAYBE

Maybe,
and I do mean maybe—

Maybe life is beautiful,
And I, like you, am exceptional.

Or maybe none of it is real,
and I am nothing more than a superficial being.

Maybe I was born to shine,
to influence reality,
to explore, to revolutionize.

Or maybe I simply exist
to endure hardship,
to make time itself feel heavier.

Maybe I am the one who will save my family,
free them from this inherited cage,
from poverty,
from obscurity.

Or maybe I am the one who will condemn them,
make their burdens heavier,
bringing them nothing but trouble.

Maybe I am free,
free to lose myself in living,
to follow my own will
and create my own reality.

Or maybe I am losing my mind,
a prisoner of my own illusion,
the jailer of my own prison.

Some say I am good,
others say I am bad.
Maybe they are right.
Maybe they are wrong.
Who knows?

Maybe I truly care about you,
truly worry for you,
pray for your victories,
act with a sincere heart.

Or maybe it is only another mask,
and I am nothing more than a deceiver,
an old fox,
a traitor,
just another smooth talker.

Maybe I am crazy,
but then, how could one not be
in a world gone mad?
The mad often laugh at everything, don’t they?
No matter the situation.

Or maybe I am the most lucid of them all.
Or perhaps I am simply dreaming while awake.

Maybe I am a virtuous man,
respectful, filled with good qualities:
loyalty, generosity, faithfulness,
sincerity, sensitivity, and kindness.

Or maybe I am a vile creature,
cold, worthless, without shame,
inhabited by stupidity, cruelty,
pride, arrogance, and greed.

Maybe life has a meaning,
that everyone has a role to play,
maybe everything is already written.
Then perhaps struggling is pointless.

Or maybe existence
is nothing more than a blank page,
and it is up to each of us
to embrace our own destiny,
to write our role into history.

Maybe I carry love within me,
bringing joy, peace, serenity,
security, happiness, stability.

Or maybe I belong more to lovelessness—
to indifference, hatred, chaos,
detachment, sorrow,
and solitude.

Maybe I carry truths,
maybe my words resonate deeply,
bringing value and meaning.
Maybe I speak and write from the heart.

Or maybe I speak only nonsense,
empty words, faded thoughts, absurdities.
Maybe I spread nothing but falsehoods,
writing without foundation,
without life in…

Maybe I am the ideal man,
the ideal friend.
Or maybe I am a burden,
an endless cycle.

Maybe I am a king,
or merely an outlaw.
A man of faith,
or a man without faith.

Maybe I am blessed.
Maybe I am cursed.

Maybe.

Did this text have a purpose?
Maybe it had an objective.
Maybe…
or maybe not.

What do you think, you?
Don’t tell me.
I may not want to know.

Maybe all of this means something.
Maybe it has an ending.
Maybe it does not.

But damn it—what do I really know?

Mirror Question:

What is one thing you are absolutely certain about yourself—and what would happen if you replaced that certainty with "maybe"?

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The Mirror Room was built as a place for reflection, curiosity, and honest exploration.

For those who wish to go further, The Evening Mirror and the Monthly Guides to Clarity explore these ideas in greater depth. They offer frameworks, guided questions, and practical tools designed to help uncover the tensions, patterns, and assumptions that quietly shape our lives.

This space is built slowly — with time, stillness, and presence.

If this work has helped you better understand yourself, your relationships, or the world around you, you can support its continuation by becoming a paid subscriber or leaving a tip.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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We often see love as a burning fire of passion, happiness, and excitement in the beginning. But once we finally “have” it, we slowly start feeling the intensity fade away little by little.

For a long time, I believed that was simply normal.

But after many years and countless hours of reflection, I began asking myself:

What if the things we keep treating as destinations… were always meant to be lived as journeys instead?

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I Am the Path

You look for me as if I were a destination,
when I’m really a sensation.
The warmth of a hand,
the spark of a shiver,
the scent of a smile,
the echo of passion.

The softness of someone’s presence,
humble gestures with no extravagance,
the quiet touch of an atmosphere,
a living cradle where trust can grow.

In conflict, in anger,
in indifference, in fleeting wounds.
In the cold, in hardship,
I remain a rock—
your faithful point of return.

No hypocrisy, no empty show,
far from pride and loud performances.
No glitter, no disguise—
just connection,
real attention woven into everyday life.

Do not reduce me, I beg you, to an ending.
To simple visions or some imagined prize.
Oh, what sorrow—what a certain grief…

For I am the breath of life itself.

I am
the path.

Mirror Question:

How many beautiful things lose their meaning the moment we believe we have finally “arrived”?

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

We are all human.

The poor sometimes believe the rich could never understand their struggles, and the rich often think the same in return.

The unattractive may believe that beauty comes without loneliness, without difficulty in connecting with others. And the beautiful may believe that those considered unattractive never have to question whether affection is genuine.

I have always tried to look at both sides of things. We all carry our differences.

And yet, the real question in my mind has always been:

Can we accept how different we are… without forgetting what still makes us human?

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Different, Yet Humans

It’s true that
our eyes are not drawn toward the same horizons.
And still,
each of us keeps moving forward,
guided by an invisible vision.

✨

Though
we are told we share the same rights.
Nevertheless,
that does not change the fact
that we are not all born equal.

Some enter the world healthy,
others inherit pain
or disability from the very beginning.

Some are born with strength,
others with battles already carved into their flesh.

Some open their eyes in abundance,
others in survival.

✨

It’s true that
we do not face the same threats.
And yet,
we are all threatened by something.

Some enter life
threatened by hunger or sickness,
others by silence,
loneliness,
or a heart slowly losing its light.

✨

No doubt
we do not fight the same wars.
And yet,
everyone is fighting a battle
others cannot always see.

Some fight the world.
Others fight their own minds.

✨

It’s true that

we have not suffered the same wounds.
We do not all know the same pain.
Our blood is not spilled for the same reasons.

Nevertheless,
we all carry scars…
some perhaps still open.

✨

It’s true that
we do not share the same flaws,
nor the same vices.
And our demons do not wear the same faces.

Still,
we all carry a darker side within us.

✨

We are all both sides of the coin:
ignorant and wise,
humble and arrogant,
kind and contemptuous,
as capable of good as of harm…

We live through the eyes of others.
And yet,
we are kings within our own worlds,
and sometimes prisoners
of what others make of us in theirs.

✨

It is true that
our lives do not carry the same energy.
We do not all draw our strength
from the same wells.
And yet,
no source flows forever.

✨

Of course our hearts
do not beat to the same rhythm.
We do not move through
the same emotions.
And still,
no life truly escapes friction.

And despite all this…
we all know kindness.
We all give love,
though not always gently,
not always wisely.

For even the driest lands
can still welcome
rebellious flowers,
wild flowers.

✨

It’s true that
our lives do not hold
the same value in the eyes of the world.
And yet,
every life is precious.
Every life carries its own worth.

Useless here,
indispensable somewhere else.

✨

It’s true that we walk upon the same earth.
We all navigate the troubled waters of life.
And yet…

we do not follow the same paths.
We are not moving in the same direction.
For we do not share the same destiny…
even if the same ending awaits us all.

Mirror Question:

Have you ever looked at someone’s life and assumed they had it easier…
without seeing the battle they were quietly carrying?

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Author’s Note

These lines came to me during my night shifts at work. It was a reflection that had been lingering in my mind for a long time already. But being in an environment where I could observe different people, with different strengths and different weaknesses, I could not help but quietly whisper these simple words to myself.

There is something I was told a long time ago: no struggle is ever truly small. Each person faces life according to their own measure. What may seem simple to me could feel like hell for someone else, and the opposite can be true as well.

For at the end of the day, we are all human. We may carry different problems and different joys, but they are still problems and joys nonetheless, often leaving behind similar emotions in different forms.

A special thank you to and for encouraging me to finish this piece as well.

I hope you enjoyed it.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Jealousy has always been one of my deepest observations. Maybe because it is also a part of me. And perhaps because, very early on, I developed the habit of questioning the things society quickly condemns as “bad.”

Over the years, through self-exploration and a little more clarity, I came to realize something:

One can carry an immense inner jealousy while still refusing to turn the other person into a possession.

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The Confession of a “Non-Jealous” Man

One day, you told me, in a breath soft and light,
Like the fading echo of a quiet whisper:
— “What I love about you, what feels so gentle,
Is that you are not, my love, a jealous man.”

I smiled when you said it, I must confess,
Though distance kept my face beyond your reach;
You could not read the storm behind my calm,
And yet, inside, I laughed like a madman.
Ah, what a cruel misfortune—
You could not see my face.

Do you remember the promises I made?
Oh, how deeply my actions contradicted them.
I, the hidden jealous man, the fool risking everything,
Winning the pitiful prize of the “non-jealous” lover.

This love is total—it asks everything of me,
And for the brightness of your days, I envy all things.
But do not mistake me; I hold no ambition
To accuse you or place blame upon your heart.

I am jealous even of the gentle breeze
That comes to caress your exquisite skin,
While far away from you, I remain motionless,
Daring not to place my hands upon your velvet touch.

I am jealous of the radiant sun
That illuminates your tender face,
Bathing your features in its crimson glow,
Stealing what I wish were mine alone.

I am jealous, you see, even of strangers—
Crowds who unknowingly receive their blessing,
Letting their eyes rest upon you without thought,
While far from you, I quietly suffer that pain.

I am jealous of the air itself, of every breath that embraces you.
It wraps around you endlessly, without growing tired,
Mocking my pride, my helpless longing,
For it is within my arms alone that you belong.

A foolish jealousy lives within me,
Yet it will never become your chain;
To love me has always been your choice alone,
And in that sacred freedom, I place my faith.

Your life is yours, as your freedom is yours.
Never will my heart seek to tame you;
But my love only keeps its anchor
If your heart still chooses me as its shore.

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Mirror Question:

Can love remain free when the fear of losing quietly begins to claim everything?

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Author’s Note

I suppose I can be seen as a mad romantic.
Maybe, deep down, I truly am.

, I finally shared this poem with the public. I still remember how gently you laughed at me when you first read it. I hope others will have the same reaction.

I don’t write many love poems, especially not in this style. When it comes to love poetry, and , even , are masters of the craft… and of course, there are many others as well.

I noticed something funny: every time I publish a love poem, I lose a few subscribers. So today, nobody is allowed to leave the boat. Stay with me a little longer,
and laugh at me instead. (just joking…)

But truly, I hope you enjoyed reading this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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(Poetry prompt)

This poem explores the darker side of hope:
the way the desire to win, the fear of losing, and the illusion of the “easy path” can sometimes pull us away from reality.

After a personal misadventure, I found myself wondering:

What if some forms of hope distance us from reality
while giving us the feeling that we are moving forward?

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The Dark Side of Hope

Sweet feeling, passion, devotion.
Heartbeats rushing, a source of motivation.
Against my reason, you always seem right.
Gentle, seductive—oh sweet poison.

You encourage me, filling me with emotion.
In the face of fear, you make your intrusion.
You silence my doubts without permission.
My heart trembles, carried by your sensation.

Oh old fox, deceiver on a mission.
A wolf’s heart beneath the skin of a lamb.
Beautiful promises, beautiful expectations—
leading me toward my own destruction.

If fear blinds our vision,
you push us toward reckless decisions.
You and fear alike, kings of disappointment—
throwing logic and reason into prison.

Dreams and riches, paths toward ruin.
Manipulations, affection without foundation.
Oh hope, cradle of illusions…
A great elevation—only for a cleaner execution.

You encourage me only to leave me abandoned.
You laugh at the table of my condemnation.
Feeding on my innocent intentions—
do you still believe in my healing?

But I rise again, far from your domination.
Your shadow fades outside my home.
I reclaim my heart, my path, my direction—
and your fall begins… the moment I find liberation.

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La Face Sombre de l’Espoir

Doux sentiment, passion, dévotion.
Des palpitations, source de motivation.
De ma raison, tu as raison.
Caressant, séduisant, ô doux poison.

Tu m’encourages, tu m’emplis d’émotion.
Face à ma peur, tu fais ton intrusion.
Tu chasses mes doutes, sans permission.
Mon cœur sursaute, porté par tes frissons.

Ô vieux renard, trompeur en mission.
Cœur de loup sous la peau d’un mouton.
Belles promesses, belles expectations —
Tu m’entraînes vers ma propre destruction.

Si la peur nous bloque la vision,
Toi, tu pousses toujours à la précipitation.
Toi comme lui, des rois de la déception —
La logique, la raison… vous jetez en prison.

Rêves et richesses, conduits à la perdition.
Manipulations, affections sans fondation.
Ô espoir, berceau d’illusions…
Grande élévation — pour mieux la décapitation.

Tu m’encourages pour mieux me laisser dans l’abandon.
Tu ricanes à la table de ma condamnation.
Profiteur de mes innocentes intentions,
Crois-tu encore à ma guérison ?

Je me relève, loin de ta domination.
Ton ombre s’éteint, hors de ma maison.
Je reprends mon cœur, ma route, ma direction —
Et ta chute commence… au moment de ma libération.

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Mirror question:

Have you ever held onto a hope so tightly that it slowly pulled you away from reality?

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Author’s Note

Here’s the funny story.

This poem was born from a basketball bet.

I had the right players, the right picks, and logic on my side. And yet… fear convinced me to abandon them for a “safer” choice. A decision driven by the hope of winning without too much difficulty.

In the end, I lost.
And the very players I had abandoned ended up winning.

I was so angry. I should have won. In that moment, I wanted to hit something, so I poured all that frustration into the hope of winning I had been holding onto.

This is a poem about that moment when you realize that hope is not always a light sometimes, it can also be poison.

, special tag.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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I am like water,

Calm at the surface, deep below,
Without a fixed form, gentle as a lamb,
A divine essence, an enduring grace.

I am like water,
At times clouded, at times clear,
Forever flowing like a stream,
Living fully, even the fleeting.

I, the water; the world, the ships,
Thousands faces, thousands beliefs.
I hold my peace through all of it,
Open, yet clear in my understanding.

My life, a mirror of water,
My words, drops that echo,
At times to blur, at times to reveal,
In lightness, in intensity.

I am like water,
Gentle at rest,
Yet fierce as a raging storm
When my boundaries are crossed.

I am like water,
A source of life or ruin.
Flowing through endless channels,
My essence never tamed.

Like water, I too can be contained,
So long as pathways let me flow—
As long as space remains within
For me to move and to express.

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, I added the french version as promised, brother.

Je suis comme l’eau

Je suis comme l’eau,
Surface calme, grande profondeur.
Sans forme fixe, humble comme l’agneau,
Essence divine, éternel honneur.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Souvent trouble, parfois clair,
Toujours en mouvement, tel un ruisseau,
Je vis pleinement, même l’éphémère.

Moi, l’eau ; le monde, les vaisseaux,
Mille visages, mille convictions.
Je garde ma paix à tous niveaux,
Tolérant, lucide en compréhension.

Ma vie, un miroir d’eau,
Mes mots, gouttes aux échos :
Parfois salir, parfois éclairer,
Dans la légèreté, dans l’intensité.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Inoffensif au repos,
Mais féroce, comme une tempête déchaînée,
Quand mes limites sont violées.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Source de vie ou calamité.
Je parcours tant de canaux,
Mon essence, jamais domptée.

Je peux, tout comme l’eau,
Me laisser barricader,
Si des passages pour mes flots
Me laissent libre de m’exprimer.

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Reflection:

It is important to know what we want in life. It is normal to have expectations. But it is even more important to know who we are.

Very often, we condition our peace and our happiness. We think that in order to finally enjoy life, we need to have this or that: money, a beautiful family, a nice house, living with our parents, being able to entertain ourselves...

What happens when some or none of these conditions are met? Should we then accept a life of unhappiness?

This is the difference between ice and water.

Ice takes on a fixed shape, and it struggles to adapt. Some forms are simply incompatible with it. With an ice mindset, peace becomes difficult, even impossible. If someone builds their happiness on money, would they still be happy without it?

Water is different. Water does not have a fixed shape, but it has its own nature. No matter the form, it keeps its essence.

If you pour regular water into an empty vodka bottle, does it become vodka by default?

And yet, the water will perfectly take the shape of the bottle while still remaining water.

“I am like water” is a poem about our ability to adapt to any situation without losing who we are. I always come back to this idea: “Life is about living.”

No matter the situation I find myself in, I always find a way to live, to smile, and to enjoy myself.

Mirror question:

What would it look like to adapt… without losing yourself?

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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Maybe it’s naïve.
I’ve been called that before.

And still…
there’s a part of me that holds on to the idea
that something softer could exist between us—
something closer to harmony.

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WHAT IF…

What if we could get along,
truly.
What if we could understand each other,
truly.

…What if we could fully see each other,
as if, all of a sudden,
there were no more secrets between us?

What if,
instead of staying
at opposite ends of the bridge,
we moved closer,
trying to meet in the middle?

What if you could see my pain—
would you understand me better?
And if I could see yours,
would I be more thoughtful?

What if we could listen—
really listen, without judging.
Listen to our emotions,
hear our intentions clearly…

What if I showed you my chaos,
would you ease some of my burdens?
And if I could see your mess,
would I dare to be more present, more grounded?

What if we lifted each other up,
celebrated each other’s victories,
patiently waiting our turn—
would there be more love between us?

What if we gave ourselves a chance—
would there be acceptance,
real consistency?
Would distrust fade,
or would trust break?

What if we opened our hearts,
set aside caution and fear,
and truly let ourselves be seen—
completely—
could we be happy,
like carefree children?

What if we allowed ourselves
to exist differently,
to live differently,
to see differently,
to feel differently—
could we coexist in peace,
within the same shared space?

What if we dared to look at the cracks,
the reasons behind our wounds,
to understand the wear and tear
before judging,
before condemning—
could we truly forgive?

What if we loved each other wildly,
shared everything—
would our lives be more beautiful,
richer, exceptional?
Would we recognize the blessing,
or fall into dissatisfaction?

What if we truly valued each other,
brought real presence
into both the light and heavy moments—
would life feel better?

What if we got along,
truly—if we listened,
if we saw each other,
if we understood,
if we forgave,
if we loved,
if we endured one another—

WOULD LIFE BE BETTER?

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Where do I even begin?
The blame, the accusations? No.
I no longer have the strength for that.
And I’m still too grateful to you for that…

You came into my life when I needed someone,
like rain saving travelers
dying of thirst in the desert.

Beautiful, independent, passionate, ambitious…
qualities that broke through
the defenses of my heart.

I didn’t know myself yet.
I wasn’t a man yet…
An immature heart, too agreeable, without real grounding.
You became my reason to be, my motivation, my vision…
Too much for you, I admit.
I understand why you left.

I already knew…
and so did my heart.
Our story was never meant to last forever.
I wasn’t yet the man you deserved.
I had accepted letting you go,
giving you back your freedom…

So tell me, my dear… why?
Why did you come back,
ask me to hold on again,
only to leave without a word?
My heart wants to know… why?

What wrong did I commit?
I’m no saint, I know that.
But your freedom—we gave it back to you…
So why return… only to leave again?

It’s not your departure
that hurts the most…
My heart and I—
we felt that coming.

I admit, I was angry
when I realized you were gone
without a single word…
It felt like betrayal.

But remembering one of my heroes,
my heart grew calm again…

No condemnation
without knowing your reasons.

Jury, judge, prosecutor…
my heart stands ready,
waiting only for you—the accused—
to deliver its verdict,
which may never come.

Know this: for you,
my heart holds no malice,
no ill intentions.
Only blessings are sent your way—
peace, prosperity, joy…

If one day you return,
I don’t think my heart will accept you.
Not for lack of love…
this old fool still carries
the weight of its affection for you.

But even so…
it will not open the door.

It has built, stone by stone,
a new reality—
a reality where you no longer exist…

Without your smile,
without your love,
without you.

And yet, be at peace:
you still live on the walls of my heart.
Like plaques of honor,
like faded medals
hanging on the walls of an old soldier…

You still shine.
A symbol of a glorious past.
A distant past.

Still… I would like to hear your voice
one last time…
to know if you are happy,
if life is kind to you…

if you are well, at least.

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Mirror Question:
When a relationship ends, do you try to understand… or do you look for someone to blame?

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Author’s Note:
This is one of the poems that weighed on me the most to write. Perhaps the truest in this series of laments to my heart.

There are people who pass through our lives and leave us carrying a strange mix of deep pain and beautiful, unsettling feelings. More often than not, we let anger blind us. But when we look more closely, we sometimes find a sense of gratitude in those departures—despite the pain—because they helped us grow into a more mature version of ourselves.

There are many ways to grieve a love that has passed.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

My dear, I cannot pretend to understand what you are feeling in this moment of loss. I can only try to imagine the depth of your pain. For there are some things in life we only truly understand once we have lived them ourselves.

These words are for you — and for anyone going through a difficult time right now.

I hope they can bring you a sense of comfort, even if only a little.

I BREATHE

A new day.
A new sun.
A heartbeat,
a quiet wink.
Cool air slipping into my lungs…

I breathe.

On sunny days,
on rainy days,

I breathe.

In the cold,
in the heat,
under tropical skies,

I breathe.

With good news,
in joy and triumph,

I breathe.

In disaster,
in defeat,
in disappointment,

I breathe.

Fortune smiles on me,
my plans unfold.
Health for me, my family, my friends.
A bit of luck in my bets.

I breathe.

In sickness,
in life’s low blows,
In bad luck,
in broken hopes,
When failure comes to collect,

I breathe.

Love leaves.
The heart breaks.
Grief pulls me into a dark abyss.
Tormenting memories.
A colorless life.

I breathe.

Death strikes,
and someone dear is gone.
In sadness,
in nostalgia,
in mourning,
When the past becomes a sharp pain,
When your absence drains the color from my life,

I breathe.

In the night,
in unconsciousness,
I breathe.

In new beginnings,
in passion,
I breathe.

When I am lost,
swallowed by confusion,
I breathe.

When I find myself again,
back on the right path,
I breathe.

To breathe is to hope.

In the exhale,
I let go.

In the inhale,
something new arrives.

Everything passes,
everything can change,
Like the air that comes and goes.

In the highs
and in the lows,

WE BREATHE.

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Author’s Note:
When I feel overwhelmed, at my lowest, I pause for a moment. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I whisper to myself, “Je respire.”

And very often, I feel a quiet sense of resilience rising within me. It reminds me that I am alive — and that alone is already a good reason to be grateful, and to keep moving forward.

Mirror Question:
When everything becomes unstable, what do you naturally return to?

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

When did you become my enemy?
You—
once my confidant,
my loyal friend.

I know it sounds strange to hear it.
You think I’m blaming you for nothing,
don’t you?

But you know me.
I’ve made many accusations in my life…
Yet never once have I lied to you.
You’ve witnessed all my failures,
every fall.

So let’s speak plainly now.
Your sins,
your detours,
your tricks,
your little conspiracies—

let’s talk about your betrayal.

I was the naïve one who followed you.
“Trust me,” you said.
“Listen to me.
Obey me.
I’ll show you the joys you seek.”

And she was beautiful—
rarely so.
Her smile…
I won’t even try to describe it…

My eyes,
my senses,
everything in me surrendered.
And I trusted you,
my dear adviser.

I listened.
I believed.
I let you lead.
I let you push me into foolishness.

I followed your impulses—
and for what?

To be thrown aside,
quietly,
like an outlaw no one wants.

And that…
was only the first time.

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Act II — The Elusive One

What mask were you wearing this time?
You vanished after your first disaster.
I imagine you came back more cunning,
and I was foolish enough to think you were finally off my back.

You know,
life felt lighter without you.
I felt good in my own skin.
Everything seemed simpler without your burdens.

I had learned the rules,
the mechanics of the game.
I was thriving.

And truth be told,
I didn’t miss you at all, old friend.

Endless parties,
nights soaked in noise and neon,
music, dancing,
small exchanges,
alcohol.
Practiced gestures,
a few well-placed words,
a golden hunt—
effortless victories with no protocol.

Nights without tomorrow,
intoxicating moments,
sweet pleasures,
sharp thrills,
whole evenings dissolving into joy.
Simple connections,
no expectations—

all of it was good, too.
Especially far from you.

You couldn’t handle it, could you? Old fox.
Seeing your puppet walk away,
finally free.

I didn’t notice your despair—
I was vigilant,
but blind.

And still, you found your moment to return like a king.

Like a lamb wandering into a den of wolves,
she walked in,
unaware of the danger.

I saw an easy target.
You saw your next move.
I played my finest performance at that moment.

A harsh defeat.
Complete.
Hard to swallow.

I should’ve noticed you feeding on my ego.
A soft poison—
you had already slipped under my skin.

I should have recognized your schemes,
seen through the quiet plots you were weaving.

And then your grip tightened,
silent
around
my throat.

Act III — The Invisible Pact

You’ve become a master of exaggeration.
You never learned how to control your own tension.

Oh, my poor ego—
perfect victim under pressure.
You little bastard…
you hid your intentions well.

How ignorant I was.
Or maybe just blind.
What a mistake to believe I had outrun you.
Your persistence—
impressive, really.

And I, foolish as ever, underestimated your audacity.

Your weakness made me an easy target.
I was playing a game I didn’t even know existed.
Like a disgraced soldier,
tricked by another’s spite—

seduction as revenge,
pointless and empty.

It became a brutal fight,
harder than I expected.
She was a worthy opponent,
a fortress well-defended.
She pushed me back with courage,
heart intact.

Low blows,
old wounds—
yet somehow,
a victory in the end.

Oh heart, you bastard—
don’t pretend you’re innocent.
You fed my ego,
quietly,
deliberately.

You didn’t plan for what came next,
did you?

My ego slipping out of control,
smothering everything.

If only… you were the only one at play.
If only…

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Act IV — The Final Mask

You thought you were the clever one from the start.
Ready to trick me,
to pull the strings however you pleased.

Smart, you?
Don’t make me laugh.

Your own foolishness betrays you.
So full of yourself—
yet you never saw it coming.

My ego, that little soldier of yours,
he twisted it all.

You had everything you wanted, finally.
And me—poor victim,
once again your puppet.

Its shadow,
dark and silent,
made you tremble…
how pathetic!

A whisper.
A dangerous imagination.
Doubt swelling,
creeping in—
an old poison resurfacing.

The ego,
that idiot,
fragile in the face of temptation.
Sliding off the rails,
surrendering to empty sensations.

Why didn’t you stop it, huh?
Miserable thing.

Were you that weak,
that cowardly,
incapable of acting?

Where was your cunning,
your usual sly desire?

Useless.

Who are you really?
Just a fable wearing a pulse?

Oh her…
gentle,
bright,
a small sun walking toward me.

Why didn’t you fight for her?
Tell me.
She didn’t deserve that—
such a cruel blow.
Deception,
a scene of horror,
a sin without equal.

You recognized too late the worst enemy you had.
You deserved the pain.

What were you so AFRAID of?

The lamenting,
the late regret
the tears—
All of it your doing.

Your ego forced me to drink that bitter cup.

And her leaving…
ah—
that was
the executioner
waking up.

Act V — The Judgment

It awakened—
the powerful jailer.
Judge,
jury,
executioner without end.

Burning cold,
an infernal weight no one sees.

The final weapon:
judgment without mercy.

You,
me,
the ego—
lined up as the accused.

Fear turning into joy,
a hungry demon
delighting in chaos,
feeding on the pain we made.

What a disaster.

All of us—
crows fooled by our own shadows.

The sentence was merciless.

Silence, once calm,
now screamed too loudly.

Music turned bland,
echoing with no essence.
Nothing can stop you—
you —my conscience.

Her face,
your banner.
Her memories,
your list of charges.
Her smile, flickering—
like a lighthouse gone dead.

Her presence…
oh God,
her presence—
pure damnation.

I accept it—
yes, I accept it.

The weight of emptiness,
the infernal solitude.
No taste left in anything,
everything dull.

I accept it,
but I hate the laws you preach.

If only…
ah yes…
your scepter.

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Act VI — The Cycle Reborn

Defeated, I withdrew into my fortress.
Solitude, my loyal companion.
You, heart locked away in meditation,
guarded by my relentless executioner.

The emptiness—
lighter with time.
Ironically, almost pleasant.
A brief reprieve, of course.

And,
my conscience drifting back to sleep.

Then it struck again,
suddenly.
Solitude growing greedy,
the void turning heavy.
That subtle, creeping need for attachment.

And you—my heart—
my unconscious accomplice.

An echo, but different this time.
No chase,
no game,
no hunt.

A search for authenticity instead,
unsettling and raw.

Until her.
Until this new threshold.

Had I known…

I would have
ignored you
this time.

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Act VII — The Last Temptation

I had locked you away well, hadn’t I?
We were tired—
emptied out.
Veterans of a past too heavy,
seeking nothing now but peace.

Empty encounters.
Beautiful women, yes—
charming,
kind,
good souls.
But conversations flat,
wearing too many faces.

Everyone with their own agenda.

Bad omen.

And then…
she arrived.

She vibrated differently.
She smiled differently.
She moved differently.
She did everything differently.

Of course, you fell at first sight.
And I—clear-headed—
forced to be the adult for us both.

She was perfection, embodied.
Even the way she looked at me—
unmatched.

My defenses fell one by one.
I felt you grin at each collapse.

And I admit it…
I believed too.
We both gave in,
without restraint.

Ah… if only—
if only—
we had known.

Act VIII — The Final Judgment

Life had regained its thousand colors again.
You, my heart,
a sublime field of flowers.
And I—the guardian—
hypnotized by the softness.

I should have known…
I saw too much meaning in it.

Everything felt right, didn’t it?
We believed so.
A beautiful life,
balanced,
shared.
Growing,
breathing success.

Peace,
respect—
happiness carefully cultivated.

And still, we weren’t blind.
Far from ego,
far from sin.

We remembered the lesson from last time.
But it wasn’t enough—
not against what was coming.

Another fear,
even as we seemed perfect.
Wise,
steady,
untouched by chaos.

So is it wrong,
really,
when everything is done right?

Fidelity—
willing, devoted,
almost a quiet servitude.

Tell me…
you—
tell me why.

Why did the carnage fall on me again?

Once more, I gave you the reins.
Look where it led us.

Our beloved—
in our bed with another man.

The same crime,
the same face as ours.
That moment when you let ego take the lead.
That innocent soul…
brutally cut down.

Karma perhaps—
what does it matter?

The eternal executioner,
whispering, present.
The sentence fell,
undeniable.

You—
shattered into a thousand pieces.

Me—
left with the scars.

Can you still claim…
innocence?

Act IX — The Final Word

Do you still think I’m blaming you for nothing?
How many times have you pushed me toward the fall?
I truly believed you wished me well.
I really thought you were my friend.

I’m tired—
can’t you feel it?
Tired of playing in your foolish games.

Honestly, I don’t understand you anymore.
I never knew you could be this cruel.

Why do you force me to stay
where I’m clearly not wanted?

Why do you push me to give myself
to someone who doesn’t want you either?

Do you love suffering that much?

They shove you away,
yet you refuse to leave.

They humiliate you,
and you climb back on the scaffold.

How can you be so foolish?

There are moments when I hate you,
you know.

You play innocent,
you drag me down.
Manipulation,
betrayal—

what do you have to say for yourself?

Old stubborn fool.
Clumsy,
confused,
unaware.
My enemy…
my old friend—

when did we start misunderstanding each other?

Maybe—
just maybe…

Ah, if life…

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Act X — What If…

Wait—
hold on a moment.

Come closer,
come here.

Let’s forget the mistakes and talk,
shall we?
About us,
about life,
about the hard truths.

You were wrong,
and so was I.

I blamed you,
caged you,
neglected you.

But tell me—
what else could I have done?

We were misunderstood,
wounded,
drifting apart.

Our fight?
Useless,
pure ignorance.

Here’s the harsh reality:

I breathe because you live.
If you die,
there’s nothing left—
no echo.

Maybe now,
it’s time we stop fighting for control.
Me, the rational one;
you, the reckless one.

Ego, fear—this division?
To the slaughterhouse.

Imagine—
truly imagine.
A quiet joy,
a rebellious peace.

You and me together;
unshakable.

Hunters,
not preys.

Oh my heart,
walk with me.
My heart,
don’t move without me.

Together, strong—
we are the crown.
Let love bow to our laws.

Not me without you…

and you

with me.

Author’s Note:

“The heart has its reasons that reason itself does not know.”
This line has grown with me. At one point, it fascinated me. Then, I began to truly resent it. There came a time when it felt like my heart had stopped being my ally— and had become my opponent instead.

So I started to wonder… If I could sit across from my own heart, what would I honestly say to it?

These poems are a few of those answers. They are shaped from my experiences, but also from imagination and observation— a movement from chaos toward peace.

And you— if you could sit down and speak openly, directly to your own heart what would you say?

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

talking like a broken parrot,
about nothing,
about everything,
just rambling,

truths,
absurd ideas,
things that don’t even exist,
empty thoughts,
twisted realities,

like I’ve got some unstoppable engine,
endless energy.

Let me be crazy, just for a bit,

walking,
dancing,
to songs playing in my head,
inside,
outside,

singing like I don’t care,
like no one’s around,
like I’m alone in my own tower,
ignoring the looks,
the judgment.

Let me be crazy, honestly,

laughing at my own nonsense,
my thoughts pulling a grin out of me,
getting excited over an idea,
a solution,
a plan that finally makes sense,

laughing alone,
but laughing for real,
quietly,
almost sneaky.

Let me be crazy, maybe,

talking to myself,
having real conversations actually,
seriously,
deeply,

taking the time to see myself,
to hear myself,
to understand,
to come back to myself.

Let me be crazy, for once,

pushing limits,
questioning what’s “normal,”
challenging accepted truths,
daring to take a different path,

questioning
what I was handed,
all that “wisdom” placed too high.

Let me be crazy, even stupid,

owning my flaws openly,
being a real dumbass sometimes,
not good,
not bad,

just following my own illusions,
not rejecting what’s said about me,
but not bowing to it either,
being weird,
maybe even a bastard.

Let me be crazy, completely,
just to tell you, straight up,
I’ve never needed your goddam permission
to live freely:

My madness,
my passions,
my gaps,
my strengths,
my weirdness,
my taste,
my stupid shit.

Just let me be crazy.
A temporary fool,
or a permanent madman.

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Author’s Note

It was actually fun to write this poem. I think I was at work, and like usual, I had started repeating random, nonsensical words to myself. There was also this coworker who doesn’t dare to do certain things when other people are around. He often told me he couldn’t be like me, as comfortable as I seem to be. And I always tell him that he could — if he finds the courage to be comfortable being considered as weird, or even crazy.

Let Me Be Crazy is a poem about owning that freedom — an identity fully lived, beyond the need or the fear for other people’s approval.

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you can always

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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The void of the night,
The void of my life,
The void in my mind,
The void in the noise,

A silent noise.

My heart beats — but anxious,
Sleep escapes my eyes,
Like the coward flees the dangerous,

My life, an echo in the void,
A hollow, greedy vastness,
My life, a path full of hollows,
Settling like a pool of still water.

Days are easy,
Nights are heavy,

By day, the masks hold,
By night, the pain is mine.

Day absorbs the void in noise,
Night — the noise of my mind
Pulls me into its well,

Oh the void…
Oh the night…

Not to think about it,
Easy to say,
Not to worry,
Easy to pretend,

Sweet illusion,
Sweet prison,

Hard is liberation,
Hard is liberation,

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Act II

The void absorbs everything,
Like a mad omnivore,
It is a mad omnivore,
Yet by day, emptied of everything,

Flavors,
Colors,
Scents,
Harmonies,
Madness,
Modesty,
Pleasures,

Even pain — sometimes —
Even fear,

Thoughts,
Intentions,
Infatuations,
Misunderstandings,
Pretenses,
Achievements,
Disappointments,
Defamations,
Pressures,
Aspirations,
Competitions,
Discussions,
Reconciliations,
Frustrations,
Devotions,
Exaltations,
Consolations,
Convictions…

The void absorbs everything.

Like a mad omnivore,
A mad omnivore—

And yet, it feeds everything.

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Act III

In this greedy void,
On my small yet spacious bed,
I close my eyes,

Welcoming the gentle touch
Of a faint beam of light
Within this darkened space,

The void is not silent.

It does not devour all.

I hear it—

A soft humming,
My laptop softly singing,
A quiet, soothing melody,

A slow tempo,
Fluid transitions without accent,
No sudden shifts,
Only gentle, enveloping sounds,

Refreshing,

Piano and flute whispering,
Nature joins the orchestra,
Birds calling, carefree,
Water flowing,

Hypnotic,

The wind—
Soft, and tender,

For a moment,

A welcoming forest,
A benevolent nature,
A lingering resonance,

Tranquility,

The void, satisfied,
Also soothed by this presence,
Retreating into its essence,

Sufficiency,

The void does not devour everything.

The void
does not
devour
everything.

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Author’s Note

There are nights when you feel nothing at all — completely empty. You can’t even find something to think about. It feels as though even sleep escapes you, leaving nothing behind but the void.

At first, this void strips you of everything, even the very sense of your own existence.

This poem was born from one of those nights, when there was nowhere left to hide. It became a way to understand that emptiness — something many people, perhaps everyone, experience without fully realizing it.

It also reflects what helped me find an anchor and slowly come back from that state of mind.

The void is not an enemy. It is a force — neither good nor bad.

A special dedication to .

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you can always make a little gesture,

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Ruined.

Beautiful on the outside,
like a rotten apple.

Freedom —
illusion and vanity.

Oh, little being…
ignorant,
carefree,
smiling.

Like a butterfly,
drifting
from flower to flower.

An adventurer
in the eyes of the world.

But inside…
bleeding.

Bare feet
in a field of thorns.

Like a patient under anesthesia,
draining of blood
without even knowing.

The pain was there,
but awareness
had not yet been born.

The wounds were many.
The roots,
deep.

Yes…
childhood was beautiful.
Restless.
Bright.

And yet —
already ruined.

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Adolescence

fixed nothing.

A rebellious mind,
a small outlaw.

Believing himself
grown,
wise,
powerful,
enough.

Defy the world.
Break the systems.

Conquer.
Acquire.
Accumulate.

A little more aware,
but already distorted.

Still ignorant,
drowning
in the blood
left by the child.

Momentum
after
momentum.

Then —
failure.

Crushing.

Reality —
unforgiving.

At fault?
Never.

Blame the others.
Them, the ignorant.
Them, the cruel.

But like a patient
slowly waking
from anesthesia,
the pain returns.

The wounds
rise again.

Sharp.
Consequential.
Unbearable.

And adolescence
fades away
like smoke.

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The fatigue of existence.

The adult is already lost.

Crushed
under weights
he does not even understand.

Forgotten pasts.

The child
bleeding out.

The adolescent
drowning in that blood.

And now —
the adult.

More direct.
More brutal.

Exhausted
by the hypocrisy of the world.

The pretenses.
The fox-like smiles.

Little by little,
rejected
by life,
by society.

Still trying
to spread
the damaged wings
of the adolescent.

To leap —
and fall.

To rise —
and fall again.

And again,
fall.

A heavy heart.
Empty.

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No direction.

Seeking refuge
in solitude,
while running
from that same solitude.

Wanting connection,
yet fearing attachment.

Rejected.
Despised.
Pushed away.

Until condemning oneself.

The rupture.

Sharp.
Humiliating.

It ties together
the burdens
of the child
and the adolescent.

Like a bridge
thrown
between two currents.

Chaos.
Indifference.
Rage.

Against everything.
Against oneself, most of all.

In isolation,
actions become conscious.

Repeated.
Calculated.

And slowly,
they turn
into behavior.

Amazement.
Curiosity.
Fascination.

I sat down,
alone, in the back,
watching the rat run.

Its patterns.
Its reactions.

Little by little —
understanding.

Then —
awareness.

Like waking up
from a long nightmare.

Like deciding
to live
for the first time.

The questions unfold:
identity,
love,
freedom,
faith,
relationships,
healing…

With only one tool:
a good instrument —
writing.

My results
do not come
from long studies.

They come
from observation,
exploration,
reflection,
confrontation,
experience.

Far from perfect.
Even less universal.

Because I am not an expert.

Only
an experiment.

And in the end,
I understand:

I am
the rat
in my laboratory.

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Author’s Note

This piece was written in reflection of my work. It is not expert writing. It is a point of view on a world that is universal.

Not a statement of absolute truth. What is written here is true to me. Authentic — but personal. Even when my writing touches subjects we all share, it remains shaped by my own experience.

I am the rat in my laboratory stands as a position. Not a figure of certainty. Just a man who has lived, observed, and chosen to express what he sees.

A vision that may be more universal than I am willing to admit.

Subscribe now

Become a subscriber to stay in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection.

For deeper readings and structured insights,
you can support this work as a paid member.

And if you simply wish to encourage the journey—
you can always

buy me a mirror.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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