I look into my vanity, taken aback by the hollow eyes that greet me.  I recognize the figure in the glass, but I do not know him. The only color in his face is plastered on by a production assistant in the form of blush, and his hair is slicked back in a way that defies both gravity and common sense.

“You wanted this,” I tell the figure before me - and he did. I did. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be exciting.

Upon further reflection, excitement is a pipe dream.

I look around the room and see only shallow mirrors; some are singing, some are dancing, others just speaking. Their eyes are void of light, offering a harsh contrast to the porcelain grins they keep stretched from ear-to-ear.

I run my fingers through my hair and feel my face, hoping to recognize some semblance of self among the many. My hands come back an unnatural shade of red, stained by the facade of makeup hiding my laugh lines and impurities.  I look into my reflection imploringly, and am met only by the familiar grin of a performer.

I find no semblance of myself in this stranger, only another shallow mirror.