Maybe the questions I’ve been trying to solve all my life that have taken me down infinite rabbit holes weren’t questions after all. Perhaps they were monologues in my head that echoed through my deserted being, reverberating for years and years to mask the underlying disconcerting silence. A broken mirror reflects back different angles in the various shards of broken glass strewn across the floor. Maybe a broken spirit does so too; fragmented desires and glitches in dreams aren’t meant to be pursued but understood that the whole is no more. But then there’s cutting yourself on the jagged edges of parts of you that have broken, and the daunting task of piecing this existential puzzle back together. What am I supposed to mirror myself in, in the meantime? What if the world’s light burns me when it finds no shiny surface to bounce off?