I don't know who you are. You look at me several times a day, everyday. But still I haven't a clue as to who you are because it matters not. Your name is useless. Your characteristics are irrelevant. The clothes you find on your body daily, mean nothing. I do not know a single thing about you, but you still willingly let me define you. It's a puzzling thing. I  will never take note of you , but I'll never lie. I don't know how you think or what you feel, therefore I have no reason to lie. But my truths are not defining truths, despite the way you take them. You will dissect yourself before me, you will depict a different version of yourself before me, hoping for me to lie to you and create the mirage of yourself that you've envisioned, but I won't. You will take my truths as the truths to decide who you are and what you will become, yet I know not who you are. Your name, your struggles, your triumphs, and your strengths and weaknesses are never known to me, but still you look to me to tell you who you are. I will never know your name, yet you have taken the liberty to name me: your mirror.