To Die Philosophically

A dull mirror, in a large, brown, rich, and ancient frame, hangs above the fireplace. The fireplace is old, made of black marble. On the smooth stone surface, dust. On the dust, the golden statuette of a sphinx, also tarnished by time. The sad mirror reflects the entire room behind the statuette, which, being closest to the glass, presides like a giant over the rest of the reflected space. The heavy fabric curtains are drawn, letting in only a thin ray of light, enough to plunge the room into an enigmatic state without hour or time. In the middle of the living room, on the thick, shapeless rug, the coffee table. A pile of books covers it entirely. The books are all copies of the same work, a certain thriller titled “To Die Philosophically”. The author is also the master of this place. A shadow, his, is barely visible on the sofa, in front of the mirror. A shadow, no longer a man. Before, there was a woman here; her distant presence can still be found in the small, soft, feminine details that make up the flat: an old postcard here, dried flowers there, the porcelain sphinx, too, bears witness to the one who had to leave one day.

Now he is recognised, he is famous. But is he happy? No. All that remains of him is a shadow, diaphanous and almost imperceptible. The air grows heavier and heavier; it is oppressive, unbearable. Too much. Finally, suddenly, all the viscous calm of the room shatters, swept up in a strong, uncontrollable movement: the book, captured by the shadow's hands, immediately leaves them to take its first flight, impetuous, swift… with a dull thud, but too loud in this space accustomed to silence, the book strikes the surface of the mirror, shattering it. Its copies will share its grim fate, one after the other… The golden porcelain sphinx can no longer bear the pressure and cracks in turn, carried away with the mixture of glass and paper sheets… The world is collapsing, the world is broken into small pieces. The shadow approaches, kneels before the asymmetrical pile of the statuette's remains, mixed with the glass. He finds a paw, cuts himself on its sharp edges, but pays no attention, continuing to massage the relic between his fingers, as if trying to transfer some of his own warmth to the porcelain. In the reflections of the broken mirror, his face, captured by the multiple shards, is recreated as a kind of monster whose expression is hard to distinguish… Is he desperate or sarcastic?