Selfsong

Once she was nameless,
spinning in a world of her own devising,
believing that it was her own perception.
All-unknowing, she was young, she worshipped innocence,
thinking that this, that nothingness, was her name.
So she spun, random, and did not know.

Then she found a name,
and it was 'solipsist',
and it was sad, but good,
beautiful in its own way, spinning random,
in a world of her own image,
in a world of her own imagining, but the walls were bare,
and the silences stretched out forever.
Listening to the babble of imaginary people,
her creations, she dreamed,
and yet she wished that she were one like them.

Solipsist dancing in her own light,
Solipsist content to be alone
and abandoned,
one day saw a name fall out of the sky,
heard a voice whispering that it was a gift.
She tried it on. It fit like silk.

So she was stillness. Radiant.
Looked into the mirror - one mirror, flat.
A change, maybe.
The image had stopped reverberating, simply was.
And instead of watching the mirror, she was.

Was the mirror.
Stillness.
To be like a pool into which one drop fell,
its sound echoed endlessly, remembered endlessly,
like the moment of her naming. Thanks.
And she could echo it forever, waiting,
as the mirror to whoever might come, and call her name,
the one who would look into the mirror and see
the pattern in the glass,
and that the one reflected was not the one reflecting,

nor is the the reflection the one being reflected.
Nor is there a logic in these words,
except the one that says 'Go! Do! Be!'
And maybe it is right,
this time,
until she finds another name.