There once were two houses made of mirrors.
The first house was inhabited by a girl as delicate as the glass she lived in. She had constructed this home herself. Every wall, each floor and ceiling, all the furniture, even her bed was made of these mirrors. She lived and breathed in a sharp, reflective prison. Each time she shifted, the mirrors would cut her ever so slightly. Continuous thin cuts against a mind as fragile as the glass she lived around.
The mirrors allowed her the sight of God, but did not grant her His compassion. She saw deep into every thin cut, into every flaw, into every imperfection she had collected. The mirrors, taking the shape of her consciousness, threw back at her all that she wanted to give up. She could not ignore herself in this house of mirrors. The shadows of her mind bounced along her house and her psyche, endlessly reflected and redoubled upon.
The house was not always a house of mirrors. The house used to be quite beautiful. Paintings of her, friends, and family, scenes of mountains and rivers, treasured memories pinned up to adorn the walls, all things designed to make her happy.
One day she hung up a mirror. Not a large one, once barely able to fit her face. She was beautiful and was completely justified in such an action. It is good to be reminded of one's worth.
One imperfection later, the mirror grew. What other parts of me are imperfect like this? she wondered. Is it more than I believed? So she bought a full-body mirror. And as the mirrors grew, so did the perceived imperfections.
The mirrors soon covered the house. They grew, almost like a virus, fed by her ever-fracturing psyche. All she could see were flaws, defects, inadequacies, consuming her entire being. As long as the mirrors existed, she would continue to be just as broken as her mind. She would never be good enough.
The second house of mirrors was exactly the same as the first. Same sharp edges, same reflective surfaces, same prison. He built it from the ground up, same as the woman of the first house. Unlike her though, he was not dismayed by each cut he received. He gazed into the mirrors so much, he didn't notice his blood lining their edges. His house, in his eyed, was the best possible place to be. For the one image in the entire house was him.
His house, similar to hers, was not originally made of mirrors. Decorations lined his walls as well. He had comfortable furniture and gaming systems to play with his friends and family. Darling pictures of them were put up at all sides, so he could always be reminded of what was truly important.
One picture was taken down and the same simple facial mirror was installed. Unlike the woman, he found no imperfections. They were certainly there, but the mind makes itself blind. All he found was success. All he saw was beauty.
Why have these other decorations when I am more wondrous then them all? he wondered. Should I take them down?
Take them down he did. The pictures of his friends, family, all his loved ones, in the trash, replaced by mirrors apt to reflect his perceived flawless being. All the gaming systems removed, the furniture replaced with the glass, the decorations destroyed. He insisted to his friends that they should just more joy in being in his presence than any other thing. To his surprise, they soon stopped coming.
The mirrors allowed him the eyes of God but the pride of Satan. Each thought cast into his glass psyche reflected back on himself. He saw every angle of himself. It was all he saw. His only decorations were the reflected images of himself.
The only God he worshipped was the beauty of his own being.
Two houses of mirrors, two same houses of self-reflective minds. Two people lived in them, a trap of their own design. The solution to their traps?