The only wisdom you’ll find in me is from my writing, yet that is but a reflection of your own inner wisdom. 

Call me Mirror. 

Ask me your questions. I’ll give you my answers.

My answers may not fit you though.

Like a hat too large or small, they just won’t sit right.

Plus you’ll look quite funny wearing my hat with those ears.

I digress.

Ask me your question.

I shall gaze into my magic scotch and divine your fate.

“Oh great Mirror. How can I get my glasses spotless?” 

I gaze at the perfect sphere of ice in my glass. Sip and taste my answer.

“The two step dry. Cloth and filter.” 

I shoo the tender away. 

Sometimes they are that simple. Ridiculous. Banal and benign.

Other times not so much.

Ask me your question.

“What is my purpose in life and why was I born onto this godforsaken planet?”

This I ignore. You are beyond help and would certainly look funny in my hat.

I sit and wait for the right question.

Your question.

The one deep inside you.

So deep you may not even know it exists. 

The one that hides when confronted for fear of being truly answered.

If someone offered you the answer to your true question, the one you’ve desired the answer to for so long, the one that if answered you’d feel you’d no longer exist.

You’re right to fear that. For when our question is answered our end is at hand. 

The revulsion and sheer refusal of the mind forming the thought you experience is self preservation, of a kind.

Deep down you don’t want the answer handed to you. And it never will be.


I am truth. 


I am truth. Purveyor of lies. 

Uh huh

I am truth. Purveyor of lies. Knower of the secrets of herald and sage and hermit. 

Perhaps I shall tell you a tale.

—j.e. pittman