The whirlwind of mirrors and floating islands subsided with the same abrupt intensity with which it had begun, leaving Marco in a place that was, in some ways, even more disorienting than the salt desert or the unknown constellations. There was no longer the open vastness, nor the dense silence. It was an immense hall with glossy obsidian walls that reflected infinitely, creating a dizzying array of self and non-self. Every surface was a perfect mirror, multiplying his figure into hundreds, thousands of Marcos, extending into a horizon of ever-smaller, ever-more distorted reflections. The air was cold, sharp, and a faint hum, like that of an ancient projector, filled the space, a sound that seemed to emanate from every reflection and from none in particular. In the center of this dizzying cathedral of mirrors, a cubic podium, black and smooth like night marble, awaited.
His gaze fell upon one of the closer reflections, then another, searching for a point of reference, a confirmation of his own presence. But each image was both the same and different, an echo of an echo. The feeling of being fragmented, already present in his "real" life, amplified here, in this dreamlike space that seemed to want to disintegrate and reassemble him at the same time. The hum grew sharper, almost a hiss.
"It's you, after all."
The voice. It was his own, unmistakably, but strangely amplified, filtered by a metallic echo that made it unrecognizable and unsettling. It wasn't a sound escaping a throat, but a thought materializing in the air, resonating from the obsidian walls like a verdict. Marco spun around, his heart pounding wildly against his ribs, a deafening drum in the amplified silence of the hall.
From one of the infinite reflections, the one directly in front of him, the figure emerged. It didn't materialize, it didn't walk out of the mirror. It simply was. It was Marco himself, but not entirely. His shoulders were more hunched, his gaze more lost, a persistent shadow on his face that was not made of light or dark, but of weariness and resignation. His clothes, so similar to what he wore, seemed more crumpled, their colors more faded. It was like looking at an old photograph of himself, but one that revealed not what he had been, but what he could have been if he had surrendered to every doubt, every uncertainty, every compromise. It was the version of himself he had always tried to keep at bay, the part that whispered "don't make it," "let it go," "it's easier this way."
"Who are you?" Marco's voice was a whisper in that vast hall, a fragile sound lost among the infinite reflections.
The figure smiled, a smile that didn't reach its eyes, an expression of bitter understanding. "I am what you hide. What you fear to face when daylight fades and you're left alone with your thoughts. I am the weight of expectations not your own, the fear of failure, the comfort of mediocrity." It approached, and with each step, the reflections danced, multiplying its presence, making it difficult to distinguish the real from the duplicate. Every reflected Marco seemed to nod at its words, a silent legion of consent. "I am your laziness, your fear of judgment, your desire to disappear into the masses, to not stand out, to not fly." The last word resonated with a sharp irony, a bitter echo of the series' own title.
Marco felt a wave of repulsion so strong it took his breath away, but also a strange, painful familiarity. That figure was a part of him, a shadow he had always known existed, an invisible weight he had carried, but had never dared to face. It was his desire to conform, the seductive call of automatism he sought to fight. The obsidian hall seemed to tighten, the reflections became more pressing, surrounding him, forcing him into an unavoidable confrontation. The images of himself twisted, showing him moments of weakness, of surrender, of choices made out of inertia rather than will. There was no escape, not in this dream that was his very soul, his materialized unconscious.
The debate was no longer made of words. It was a clash of sensations, of inner pushes and pulls. A silent struggle between the part of Marco that wanted to give up and the part that, though wounded and tired, still yearned for freedom, for heteronomy. He felt the weight of years of external beliefs, of ingrained fears, of beaten paths that had led him away from his true essence. Every reflection seemed to judge him, but also to understand him. The figure, his shadow, was not an enemy to be defeated by force, but a part of himself to be recognized, to be integrated, from which to learn.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the figure dissolved. It didn't vanish into thin air, nor did it retreat into the mirrors with an abrupt gesture. It melted, like mist in the sun, not disappearing entirely, but retreating into the mirrors, becoming one reflection among many, less distinct, less imposing. It left behind a trail of bitter, yet necessary, awareness. Marco was alone again in the center of the hall, but he was not the same. The obsidian walls seemed less menacing now, the reflections less alienating. He had faced his shadow, and although he hadn't defeated it with violence, he had recognized it. He had seen the part of himself that pulled him down, towards massification, and he had chosen not to yield. And in that recognition, in that conscious choice, there was a first, faint spark of freedom. The journey had become heavier, more painful, but also more authentic, closer to the true essence of his Self. The obsidian hall, with its infinite reflections, was no longer a prison, but a vast archive of possibilities.
Per l’ elaborazione di parti del contenuto è stato utilizzato l’ ausilio dell’AI Gemini.
Luca.
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