There is no mirror in this house.

No real way to see myself.

I walk through hallways of both joy and sorrow,

I hear endless whispers of the pain of tomorrow.

There are dusty paintings on the wall,

no matter what I do they will not fall.

They all look oddly the same,

as if each one is part of a game.

Each one is painted by a different person.

The same picture, but a different version.

This is not as interesting as it might seem to be,

for these are all pictures of me.

There is no mirror in this house,

and there is no painting of how I see myself.