“I can’t do it. I can’t!” He screamed wordless frustration at his reflection.

And, to his utter surprise, it answered.

“Of course you can, you idiot!” it scolded. “Why do you think you can’t?”

“I’m done,” he said after a moment. “I’m spent. I’m mentally exhausted, emotionally drained, creatively fried.”

“Oh, bull!” the him-that-wasn’t-him replied. “You can be more creative than most people you know. You’re just a coward.”

“Hey!” he yelled at himself. “Do you have any clue what that marathon last night took out of me? And idea at all?!”

“Well, duh, ya freakin’ moron! I’m you!”

“No,” he said. “You’re my reflection. You’re not me!”

“Fine, I’m your reflection,” the mirror said. “I’m your opposite. Probably explains why I believe in myself and you don’t. You’re probably right. You’re washed up. A has-been.”

“Hey, hey, hey! I never said that!” he said, defensively. “I’m just saying I’m creatively worn out for now.”

“Really? Then what do you call this conversation?”