The Jabberwock

I live in a quiet town by the coast of the sea, in a tiny house. It had a bright pastel yellow coating, and inside was even brighter. Huge chandeliers hanging across the hallways and infinite amounts of sunlight would sting whoever entered the house. However, in the very corner of the house, there was the attic. It seemed almost untouched by the brightness, holding shadows that whispered secrets that had long been forgotten. I, one day, drawn by curiosity, went up to the attic. The attic was dusty and dim, filled with old boxes and forgotten books, and the faint smell of salt from the sea. Not one streak of sunlight entered by the boarded up windows, as if the room itself were waiting for something, or someone to awaken it. 

As I explored the attic, something was leaning against the wall beneath a white, dusty sheet. I pulled the cloth away, and dust came swirling around, like allergy season all over again. Underneath was a tall mirror with a dark wooden frame carved with gold patterns that twisted like vines. It wasn’t ordinary. 

When I looked into the glass, the hair in the back of my neck stood up. Something was off about the mirror. At first, I only saw myself. I blinked once. In the mirror wasn’t just my reflection anymore, but split into two. One side was perfectly familiar, while the other side was slightly off, like a shadow version of me. The longer I stared into the mirror, the more unusual my reflection looked. 

Instead of stopping at the two sides of me, my reflection became something that was endless. There were countless versions of myself disappearing into the distance. One side of me smiled softly, looked thoughtful, confident, and serene. Others were shadowed, hesitant, or sorrowful.  Each version seemed to be caught between certainty and uncertainty, day and night. 

Curiously, I reached into the mirror. My hand didn’t touch the cold glass, but instead felt nothing on the other side. Taking the risk, I stepped forward and closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes, the attic vanished behind. I was standing in a long hallway with infinite mirrors, with infinite depictions of myself. The mirrors had the same vine like gold pattern, with pale, clean, white walls, showcasing the mirrors. I walked down the hallway among countless versions of myself, each moving as if thinking various thoughts, each living a life that was imagined, or never imagined at all. Some had left town to live in big cities of glass and steel, with the noise of the busy streets. Some wandered along sandy beaches under sorbet sunsets. Some climbed mountains covered with clouds, while others sat quietly, reading in rooms. Either gazing out into an ethereal, sunlit day, or looking out into a shadowed, nostalgic sky, heavy with the weight of memory. Others seemed to wander through places I had never seen before. 

One was standing, taking a picture with a long piece of bread in front of a tall iron structure that rose high above the city. Its bronze color metal beams crisscrossed in a sophisticated pattern, almost like shoelaces. Four wide legs curve upward from the ground and slowly narrow as it climbs into the sky. Another one of me was standing in front of an ancient stone structure. Its tall rows of arches rise one above another. Some parts of the huge building seemed like it had been bitten by a monster, which had crumbled, while the other part was still gleaming under the sun. 

It felt as though I was walking through every possible life I could live. I passed versions of myself playing piano on bright stages in front of crowds of people. Other versions were written at a wooden desk. There was another that was almost about to touch the moon. Each step soaked me into the deeper part of the sea. Possibility and limitation, joy and fear, the self I knew, and the self I had to explore. 

I took another step forward. 

Suddenly, the ground seemed to shake. 

The endless hallway started to collapse, mirrors shattered into the light and shadow, and then everything went blurry. The other me faded like mist in the morning sun. 

I blinked. I blinked again. 

I was lying in my bed, with the dark night wrapping the whole room, but only the bright stars gleamed above. The sound of the sea from outside drifted to the shore. My room was quiet, but familiar, and I could still feel the tension between who I was and who I could be. 

For a moment, I wondered if the attic, the mirror, and the endless hallway were all real. I wondered what that meant for me. I closed my eyes again, but this time, I saw the many depictions of myself walking into completely different paths. The paths stretched endlessly into the distance. 

But, at a point, far beyond what I could see, those paths would always meet with a specific emotion. 

Happiness.