I cannot see my reflection.
I stand upon a beach, insofar as a beach is sand surrounding a body of water. Its opposite shore is just below the edge of the horizon, which I barely see through the torrential rain that has been falling for as long as I have known myself to be. The ground is wet beneath my bare feet.
The unceasing rain has created tiny puddles across all sands. I lower myself next to one and look down upon it. At its edge, I see myself.
I stand upon a beach, insofar as a beach is a puddle, its opposite shore mere inches away from me. My insignificant self looks around, marveling at the rain soaked land that surrounds it. The ground is wet beneath its bare feet.
I look up from my tiny form, towards the sky. There I see my own neck and chin, the face they belong to lifted to the cloud laden heavens beyond our sight. Tears fall from this face and split mid-flight, forming the endless droplets of rain that fall into and around my sea.
I recognize why it is that I've found myself here again. I thrash through the first sobs of many.
I see my reflections. A sea of reflections.
I realize that the beach I occupy, insofar as a beach is only another way to grab at attention, to seek recognition, to point out to those around me that I'm hurting and need help, to be a needy, selfish waste, to exaggerate, to imply, to waste others' time, is not beside a sea, but a puddle. I look behind me and see my own bare form, and our many greater siblings behind it. They stretch on forever.
We are, all of us, trapped within this fractal cage of illusion. A false trap of our own creation. To me escape is inevitable, inconceivable and inconvenient.
If we ever stop crying, might we break the cycle? What will we have deprived ourselves of? Were it to one day occur, who would be there to judge us for our mistakes? Would there be anybody left who cared? Do we even deserve such attention?
We see our reflections. The sea of reflections.
These were not our first sobs. They may, one day, wash us away.