Why it's called Citizen Mirror
You are the first citizen
of yourself.
And you live under principles you never wrote down.
They were installed, not chosen — by a family, a school, a service, a country, something that happened when you were nineteen. They decide what you say yes to, what you forgive, what you can't let go of, who you become at 2 a.m. Almost nobody can recite a single one of them. All of them are governing.
A country's citizens can read its constitution. You've never read yours.
Three words, meant literally
Citizen
A citizen of a country can read its constitution. You can't read yours — and yours is the one running your Tuesday. Every person is a country of one. You are its first citizen, and for most of your life, someone else has been writing the laws.
Mirror
Not a coach, not a therapist, not an oracle. A mirror says back what it heard — accurately enough that you flinch — then wonders aloud about what might be underneath, and asks one question that goes deeper. Sometimes it offers one small experiment, more readily if you ask for direction or if what you're carrying is urgent. What it will not do is decide for you, or pretend to know your life better than you do.
Constitution
What you keep. When something true surfaces in a sitting, the Mirror offers it back as a single sentence, and you decide whether it belongs to you. The document builds itself out of what you recognized, and it lives on your device, not ours.
What actually happens
1
You say what's on your mind — out loud is better, and rambling is better still.
2
It says back what it heard, wonders about what's underneath, and asks you one question.
3
You answer. It goes deeper. When something rings true, you keep it.
The voice on the other side is a language model — Anthropic's Claude, called from our server one turn at a time. Not a person, not a counselor, and nobody is reading along. There is no one here to read.
Nothing you say is ever stored: each reflection happens in the moment and is discarded. Your sittings and your Constitution live only on this device — no account, no transcript on a server, and no record of you that anyone could make us hand over. The one exception is yours to make: if you ever choose to publish a single principle to the Common Constitution, that one sentence is kept — anonymously, with nothing attached to it — and only because you tapped it.