Whirlpool mirrors

 A fiction: "Whirlpool Mirrors"

That's what he thought of as the flood if images surrounded him. He saw Fate, a trillion tunnels dug through glass. He saw Chance, the impossible choice from a million paths. He saw Mind, a planet of its own, yet only the size of a hamster's cage. He saw Hope, the belief that Nothing fades faster than Time.

He saw Her. He saw her, and he saw him. He saw all the he's he lost, the tip of the eraser stolen by time. They were hers now, and they always would be, but he... he had to move on. He can't be them now. Not without torturing himself. He has to move on.

He sees the market in lights; he sits between the ghosts of Memory; he sees the string unravel as his clones sans time fall into the foggy sea; he sees the past and he sees a future.

They all look back at and through each other. They clash and meld and swirl.

The waves roar and hiss as they curl inward towards him, towards the cold steel of the platform he's standing on.

He's scared. Scared that he can see so much, that he can feel like he sees so much, but at the same time see so little.

He's scared of the visions that craft themselves while he watches. 

He's scared of what his mind can do without him.

Ah, but the waves crash in on him. He's swallowed up by fear and memory. The force dissipates as the waters attack him and he sees one more thing. He doesn't know what it is. It's too bright now. It's too dark.

But now the waters are placid again. Now he can hear himself again.

"Are you OK?" He asks.

"I couldn't tell you."

He at least misses the vibrant visions, but he's glad to be back again. Back in control. He thinks that's what this is.

They're still there though. Everything he saw, every anecdote his mind kindly illustrated for him. He can never tell if that's good or bad.

"I'm fine," he tells himself, as if there were really another choice.