We would probably go crazy.
We would go crazy over the weight of our sins. The pain of our fragility would be like a sword embedded in the heart.
We would be afraid of death, and afraid of living. Nothing would be worth it. It would be unbearable to imagine that we will offend, without return, the author of life. That we hurt the one who loved us until the end, until the death of the cross, and that we would not have a way to resume the lost friendship.
We would be out of the Church, out of communion, out of paradise. We couldn’t look at the saints. The mirror image itself would hurt our soul.
We would walk hunched over. It would be impossible to look at the sky. And sin, like a poison without an antidote, would lead us to death.