- Seattle, WA
- Last Record: 2012-08-17 06:09:06 +0100
- Joined: Jul 25, 2012
They say everyone has a doppelgänger, a copy of themselves, out in the world. Someone just waiting for you to discover. I'd never really believed it. Why would I? What proof was there that such a concept existed? I'm just a simple artist, not some sort of scientist. I believe in what I can see, what I can feel, not what might, or could, exist. But, then again, maybe I should have believed it. I mean, as an artist, I create all sorts of things that technically shouldn't exist in the real world. I've even seen things that shouldn't even exist. And yet, the idea of another me, someone who looks, acts, and possibly sounds just like me, seems like an impossibility. Even in a big city, such as my own, I refuse to believe that the possibility of a duplicate me actually exists. It is a thought that I refuse to give even one iota to.
And yet here I stand, looking at someone who, for all intents and purposes, is me. We're dressed the same, have the same colour hair, and even the exact same outfit. Am I looking in a mirror? Has someone placed a life sized mirror in the middle of a busy sidewalk as some sort of joke? I want to reach out, to touch, to feel. The curiosity is killing me, like it killed the proverbial cat. Does she feel the same? Are her thoughts exactly like mine? Do we even sound the same? Life keeps passing us by, the sounds of the city all but silent, as the only thing I can focus on is standing right in front of me. I can't tell if she's just as curious as me. Her expressions are my expressions. We are twins, for lack of a better word. Or maybe, we're just exact copies. Even twins have minor differences. And we have absolutely none.
Maybe twins isn't a good word. Maybe there isn't a good word to describe this situation. Maybe I'm dreaming, and at some point, I will wake up. Or maybe not. I don't know. My eyes are focused on the woman, on me, and all I can think of are the questions I want to ask. What did she do? Did she have a better life? A worse life? Was she an artist? Or did she follow some other path? Words refused to form, refused to come out of my own mouth. At least I could take some odd form of comfort, knowing I didn't look like a dying fish, trying to speak. Was she having the exact same problem? Or was she just refusing to speak? Slowly, but surely, my curiosity was killing me. And I still had no idea if all of this was real, or some made up fantasy. Stress does funny things to people. Or so I've heard.
"No regrets." Her voice, exactly like mine, broke through our silence. Her words, something I'd tried to live by, sounded like something I would say. I wanted to know if there would be more, if she had more to say. But nothing. She walked past me, her movements exactly like my own. As I let the words sink in, I wonder – was it all real? I turn, looking for the woman who was me, and I see nothing. Had the crowd already assimilated her? Had she been real? Or was this just a dream? I'll never know, and I think I'm okay with that. No regrets. Those were her words, and my motto. Time to move forward, to live this particular day like it would be my last. With no regrets.