Reflections of a Frans
It was a day when the sky seemed crystal clear, yet filled with shadows. The two men stood in front of the large glass window, just long enough to unintentionally become part of a scene that looked perfect for a philosophical photo exhibition. Both men were named Frans, but the similarity ended there. Left Frans—as he would come to be called—had traveled the world in his mind and through his work. Right Frans mostly observed the world from up close, practical and grounded.
"I can hardly see you," said Right Frans with a smile. His voice sounded as though he meant to say something lighthearted, but his eyes held a certain seriousness. He pointed to the glass. “You’re just a vague shadow there, in the reflection.”
Left Frans raised one corner of his mouth and shrugged. “Oh,” he replied, “I’m used to that. My life has been more reflection than reality.”
He turned slightly, so the sunlight half-lit his face, leaving the other half in shadow. That’s what his life had always been: light and dark, fame and loneliness, truth and illusion. There are places where you only see yourself reflected, he had learned, and there are places where you disappear into the masses of light and noise. Radio Veronica had been one of those places, a world of voices without faces, where the word was powerful, but where you as a person faded into the background.
In the 1970s and 1980s, Left Frans had been the voice half of the Netherlands listened to. His voice flowed smoothly over the radio, a calming sound amid the chaos. He played records, introduced artists, and had no idea that he was creating the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. People remembered their first kiss to a song he had introduced, their heartbreaks, their dreams of grand adventures.
And Frans had seen it all—or so it seemed. He had interviewed Rod Stewart shortly after his song Sailing became a hit. Rod had acted like a rock star, full of flair and bravado, but when they were alone after the interview, he had whispered, “You know, Frans, sometimes I feel like I’m just a reflection of myself.”
That was a moment that had always stuck with him. Because what does it mean to be real when everything around you is measured by how you appear?
“Do you know what I mean, Right Frans?” Left Frans asked suddenly, pointing to their reflections. “You’re somewhere, you’re alive, and yet it feels as though you only see yourself through a mirror. Your own life feels like a performance.”
Right Frans, who had been a teacher for years, stared quietly at the glass for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Maybe,” he replied, “but in the end, we are more than our reflection.”
Left Frans looked at him curiously.
“As a teacher,” Right Frans continued, “I always told my students that their reflection shows them something, but never everything. You see your eyes, but not what lives behind them. You see your smile, but not what you feel. Behind that is something that cannot be captured by light and glass.”
Left Frans nodded slowly. “And maybe,” he said, “that’s the real life.”
It hadn’t always been easy, Frans thought. Fame, glamour, meeting icons—it had been as enchanting as it was superficial. He remembered his meeting with Donald Trump years ago. Trump had just opened another building with his name on it in golden letters, and he was exactly as you’d expect: overwhelming, confident, a man who had turned his own illusion into reality.
“What’s it like to always be larger than life itself?” Frans had asked him.
Trump had held his gaze for a moment and then laughed. The kind of laugh that seemed to echo in the emptiness of a grand marble hall. “You have to believe it, Frans,” he had said, “then they’ll believe it too.”
And that was the moment Frans understood the world was full of illusions. People played roles, built facades, and created mirrors in which others saw them as they wanted to be. But who they really were? That was something else.
But there had also been other moments. He thought of the interviews with Frank Zappa, whose sharp humor cut through reality like a knife. Or with ABBA, when they spoke of their sadness despite their success—how millions of people loved their music, but not them as individuals.
In a strange way, all of this had brought Frans peace. It had taught him that everyone searches for something real, something that remains when all the lights go out.
And now he stood here, with Right Frans, in front of a glass window that reflected an entire street. Behind them were the houses, silent witnesses to time, memories, and conversations that had once taken place. The reflections of both men merged with the cars, the clouds, and the shadows of the day.
“But what if that glass wasn’t there?” Right Frans asked suddenly.
Left Frans looked at him questioningly.
“If there was no reflection,” Right Frans continued, “if we only had reality? No illusions, no mirrors. Just here and now.”
Left Frans thought about it for a moment. “Maybe we wouldn’t understand it,” he said softly. “Maybe we need those reflections to see who we really are.”
It was true. The reflection was never completely false. It showed them where they stood, how they looked, and sometimes even how the light fell on the shadowy parts of their lives.
“But the real Frans,” said Right Frans with a grin, “is more than a reflection. The real Frans has lived, sung, asked questions, and most of all, made people listen.”
That made Left Frans laugh. He thought back to his radio years, when he would play the last record of the day and wish his listeners a good night. He had always hoped his voice brought a little warmth to the loneliness of their rooms.
The two men stayed a little longer. The sun slowly moved toward the edge of the afternoon, and the light changed. The glass became a painting of shadows, glimmers, and golden streaks.
“Shall we move on?” Right Frans asked.
Left Frans nodded and looked one last time at their reflections. Two men, two lives, both shaped by their own stories. One had traveled the world through words, music, and voices. The other had rooted himself in the reality of classrooms and practical wisdom. And yet here they were together, two sides of the same coin.
They walked away from the glass, leaving their reflections behind. But real life, the life they chose themselves, continued. Left Frans thought of all the illusions he had seen and the moments of truth in between. The world was both real and a reflection, and that’s what made it beautiful.
As he looked toward the horizon, where the sky opened like an endless canvas, he suddenly felt light.
“What is real life?” Right Frans asked suddenly, with a wink.
Left Frans smiled. “This,” he said simply. “This moment.”
And that was enough.
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