A stranger greets me in the morning glass.He blinks with me,he shadows every move I make.The memories are mine,the thoughts, the fears,the hands that lift my coffee cup — mine.But the face is his.Who is he?And who, then, am I?A human is the inner and the outer intertwined —a story carved in wrinkles,scars,a quiet smile.My story has been wiped clean.In its place — a blank pagewritten in someone else’s hand,with someone else’s features.I cannot trust my reflection.I cannot trust the eyes of others,for they speak to him, not me.I’ve become a ghostwearing a borrowed body,seeing the world through borrowed eyes.Am I an error?A bug left in the code of reality?A line someone forgot to erase?An error is something that shouldn’t exist,something that breaks the system.But I exist.I breathe.I think.I feel this tearing contradiction inside me.Maybe I am neither.Not a man,not a mistake.I am a question posed to a shattered mirror —a walking paradox,a proof that the “I” is not what is seen,but what fights to break throughthe mask of someone else’s face.
