I don’t mean that in a narcissistic, Instagram-filter way. I mean it in the way that, when you stare long enough into the black glass of an Ishigaki night, the person staring back is a stranger wearing your face. The humidity has curled my hair like seaweed. The salt from last night’s swim at Kabira Bay still lingers on my skin.
-ACT- -Ishigaki- Lover Of Mirror Image
The boy said, "We look like one person." -ACT- -Ishigaki- Lover Of Mirror Image
Oyasumi, Ishigaki. Oyasumi, watashi. #Ishigaki #Okinawa #MirrorImage #SoloTravel #YamatoMonogatari #Reflection
Tonight, the air is thick as syrup. I left the shutter door of my little rental house open—just a crack. The glass of the sliding door has become a dark, patient mirror. I don’t mean that in a narcissistic, Instagram-filter way
He watches his own hands in the reflection as they reach for a glass of awamori. He watches his own lips as they mouth the lyrics to a sad Begin song. He is performing for himself, and he is the only audience member who matters.
In the mirror, I see the version of me who would have swum out too far. The version who would have touched the fire coral on purpose, just to feel something sharp. The one who falls in love with taxi drivers and then forgets their faces by morning. The salt from last night’s swim at Kabira
The reflection smiles. I didn’t.