How did we get here?
Not, you know, in terms of the grand overarching "WHY ARE WE HERE!?" cry that one might make to the universe, but rather in a sense of how did we become the people we are today?
Was it happy chance? The child of simple and mere circumstance, thrust upon is in our childhood? The environment around us, molding and shaping us even as we mold and shape it? A constant battle of overwhelming (and being overwhelmed by) the psyche on the part of its surroundings?
Nuture, perhaps? Are our parents so influencial upon our upbringing that they can dramatically alter the course of future events with a single wave of a hand to wipe away tears, or the swipe of a fist to punish too much for too little of a slight? The use of a strap when a ruler was required; the use of a hand on bare skin when only harsh words and a stern expression was needed?
Could it have been outside influences? A lover scorned? Too much glass in too much cocaine, with every snorted line and bleeding nose cleaned, losing a little bit of that thing that makes us who we are?
Could it be any number of combinations of the above?
Life is mutable. It can be changed, altered, redirected. Formed to fit what we wish, and designed to flow as we desire. History is repleat with this fact being proven time and again. Consider, if you will, any number of psychological experimentations done by latter-century scientists in the form of conditioning, and therapy. Electroshock. Insanity rooms. What makes a sane man mad, would make a mad man sane.
Right?
So often our minds, fragile as they are, are liken unto a mirror hanging in our boudoir. We see ourselves, and we see ourselves as we truly exist. Hair is cropped short, or left long. Eyebrows finely crafted or left to their own devices. Two eyes, green hazel or blue as we were born with. Lips are thin, or full; kissable or not, as we were when out of mother's womb. Flesh, pale or fair or dark or black (in the case of the Drow; we must be multicultural after all) as the case may be.
We see ourselves. It is us. We can always look and (with the exception of Tara Longden, who has no reflection) see not what we wish to see, perhaps, but what is truly there. The mirror reflects one's soul as they look back. People speak of heinous crimes preventing them from looking at their own reflection; not liking what they see.
How often in life do we not like what we see when peering into the looking glass? Is it even truly us, anymore? Or are we simply the reflection of another, staring, from the other side, into our face? A twin, a doppleganger, a mimic? Is it their own twisted psyche, dark and brooding, that makes us not like what we see? Is it enough to anger you, to drive you into a furious frenzy, and strike at that mirror? Do you not like what you see so much that you would destroy your very reflection?
And what happens when that mirror gets broken; shattered, falling to the floor like so many pieces of glass against the cold, hard surface of reality?
Do we get broken with it? Are our minds ravaged, sent into various parts and corners of our psyche, flayed from being a single, whole, unique person once again, and so cursed to move through life and nod and smile and wave and sit upon laps and whisper sweet and delicate naughty nothings into a lover's ear, praying that something, anything, could come and put the pieces back together?
How did we get here?
What happened?
Our lesson begins. Come and see.
Not, you know, in terms of the grand overarching "WHY ARE WE HERE!?" cry that one might make to the universe, but rather in a sense of how did we become the people we are today?
Was it happy chance? The child of simple and mere circumstance, thrust upon is in our childhood? The environment around us, molding and shaping us even as we mold and shape it? A constant battle of overwhelming (and being overwhelmed by) the psyche on the part of its surroundings?
Nuture, perhaps? Are our parents so influencial upon our upbringing that they can dramatically alter the course of future events with a single wave of a hand to wipe away tears, or the swipe of a fist to punish too much for too little of a slight? The use of a strap when a ruler was required; the use of a hand on bare skin when only harsh words and a stern expression was needed?
Could it have been outside influences? A lover scorned? Too much glass in too much cocaine, with every snorted line and bleeding nose cleaned, losing a little bit of that thing that makes us who we are?
Could it be any number of combinations of the above?
Life is mutable. It can be changed, altered, redirected. Formed to fit what we wish, and designed to flow as we desire. History is repleat with this fact being proven time and again. Consider, if you will, any number of psychological experimentations done by latter-century scientists in the form of conditioning, and therapy. Electroshock. Insanity rooms. What makes a sane man mad, would make a mad man sane.
Right?
So often our minds, fragile as they are, are liken unto a mirror hanging in our boudoir. We see ourselves, and we see ourselves as we truly exist. Hair is cropped short, or left long. Eyebrows finely crafted or left to their own devices. Two eyes, green hazel or blue as we were born with. Lips are thin, or full; kissable or not, as we were when out of mother's womb. Flesh, pale or fair or dark or black (in the case of the Drow; we must be multicultural after all) as the case may be.
We see ourselves. It is us. We can always look and (with the exception of Tara Longden, who has no reflection) see not what we wish to see, perhaps, but what is truly there. The mirror reflects one's soul as they look back. People speak of heinous crimes preventing them from looking at their own reflection; not liking what they see.
How often in life do we not like what we see when peering into the looking glass? Is it even truly us, anymore? Or are we simply the reflection of another, staring, from the other side, into our face? A twin, a doppleganger, a mimic? Is it their own twisted psyche, dark and brooding, that makes us not like what we see? Is it enough to anger you, to drive you into a furious frenzy, and strike at that mirror? Do you not like what you see so much that you would destroy your very reflection?
And what happens when that mirror gets broken; shattered, falling to the floor like so many pieces of glass against the cold, hard surface of reality?
Do we get broken with it? Are our minds ravaged, sent into various parts and corners of our psyche, flayed from being a single, whole, unique person once again, and so cursed to move through life and nod and smile and wave and sit upon laps and whisper sweet and delicate naughty nothings into a lover's ear, praying that something, anything, could come and put the pieces back together?
How did we get here?
What happened?
Our lesson begins. Come and see.