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Personal Essay : The Story Of The Body?

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It’s a strange sensation, not having a body.
I’ve been stripped of all that now, stripped down bare to a raw, churning, soul; a human imprint left to wander endlessly until who knows when.
I’m not quite sure where the rest of me is. Though it’s probably not accurate to say “me” anymore. The body. I’m not sure where the body is. Probably in some grave or ditch somewhere. Not that it matters. I’m just wondering if visiting there, the body, would give me some sort of clue as to what I’m supposed to be doing.
My only sense of purpose comes from meandering. For example, right now, I’m following a dusty red backroad in the countryside. Couldn’t tell you where I am. Couldn’t tell you where I’m going. But the one thing I know is that some
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However, internally, the darkness blends everything together into an expansive void with the stark, chalky outlines of furniture the only objects visible, being illuminated by the light of the open door. Why this, of all places…
My eye catches a light emitting blinding flashes from the depths of the place, cutting through that stagnant black. I drift toward it, entranced. The static rises as I draw nearer and nearer, as if the hair of the room itself sharpens and stiffens, up on edge like the tips of fingers brushed down an unsuspecting spine.
The light leads me through the doorway of a separate area, in which I am immediately overtaken by the lights and the energy pulsing deep in my chest like an unearthly bass. The roof has caved through, lending itself to cast light across a hall, which, as I peer down it, seems to go on infinitely.
And the mirrors. Mirrors of every imaginable shape and size line the walls like a post-apocalyptic art gallery. Faces lurk behind the glass, with their wide yellow grins and irises like the eyes of hurricanes drawing me. A fatal storm pulling me in. I spin around, eyes widening, staring up and out and across until the full weight of the significance of the creatures seizes me, and I collapse. They were once human. They were once like me.
What scares me the most are the gorgeous mirrors. Elegant. Victorian. Expensive. Left to chip and rot and hold a grey-faced teenage girl with a
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