Open the curtains.
Look unto the stage,
See the man dance
And watch him closely.
Open the door,
Look at the crowd,
See the empty seats
And watch them shudder.
Look back at the man
And see that tear.
Stand up and clap him
Happy.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Reflection
Each drop dripped with the strain of stress. The salty beads followed the outline of my body, sliding down the slippery dip until it silently thudded as it beat upon the ground. Another drop pursued the first ghostly drop. My clothes felt the gentle ting of a strange sweat and tear mixture; absorbing it, slowly becoming a darker shade of grey. My feet pushed against the oncoming breeze, rushing away from the fury of the world. Nothing was anything. I wasn’t even sure who I was. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be who I was. While I was running I tried my hardest to visualize how I should be. I could see me. I could see each drop of sweat, each tear. I could see my arms shake and my legs twitch. I could see the only thing I truly hated in the world – me.
Run - that’s all I could do. The image burned inside my mind etching an imprint of me on my membranes. Every single thought was a visual of me, of how I am. My feet moved at a quicker pace, as if the treadmill had turned up a gear. The imprint waved through my thoughts, consuming and reducing it to one single thing. I could not stand myself, how I looked or who I was. The wind lashed against me, a storm was brewing inside my mind and out. Clouds of grey boomed out a roar and I just kept on running.
The mirror - that was me. I saw myself for what I really was that moment. I wasn’t so revolting. I wasn’t as flawed or as big of a fuck up as I made myself believe.
Piercing, slowly edging and cutting its shape into the mirror, was the image. The shade inflated in size, until it had embodied the glass, leaving nothing to be seen but an imperfect shadow; a vision of myself. Everything was wrong about it; how it looked, how it smiled, how every microscopic particle was enlarged and magnified to absurd horror. My hands – why were they so small? Have they always been? Even in a two dimensional image you could see my stomach protrude and bulge forward, almost as if I had a sack of money stashed underneath my shirt. Wrong. I looked wrong. Sweat oozed like lava from my pores. My mind flashed to that one moment, that one voice, the one laugh that set me off. No, I’m not pretty. I never was pretty. That moment the hammer of realization collapsed on my skull, and I saw what he saw. I saw ugly.
The features in the glass transformed as my thoughts transformed. The more I hated myself the worse I looked, the less I could handle myself. My hands stroked the dark, greasy reflection of my hair. They traced the outline of it feeling every bump and imperfection. I touched the bulge and felt every cavity, every crease, and every atom that comprised that image. My eyes followed my hand and burned from looking. I couldn’t handle it. Anger sizzled inside and climaxed until I had broken the mirror with a concussion of slaps. The fragments created a mosaic of me, thousands of images reflecting a ghoul. Hands clutched to the pain of glass piercing skin. I cried. I don’t even think the pain is what made me cry. I cried because, I didn’t know what else to do but cry. I’d made a mess and I was a mess.
It all became so three dimensional, each embodiment of me seemed to jump out and grab me. Pulling. It felt like they were trying to grab me and suck me in. I couldn’t fight them.
“This is you”.
The weeks that followed were full of exercise and starvation. I would be pretty even if it killed me and it almost did. I wouldn’t eat more than a slice of bread a day. I covered my face so full of make-up that you could not see the slightest blemish or even notice that it was me under that mask. I ran everywhere. I ran until I couldn’t feel my legs, until that moment where you are so close to collapsing. I got uglier.
I had changed, drastically. The scale said I had lost weight, but I know I hadn’t. I was fatter than ever.
The mirror – why? This image – why? Why?
Months had past and I looked worse. In that mirror all I saw was the very same image that I had saw before, the fragments finally cleaned and the mirror replaced.
From my brain stemmed raw emotion, raw pain and loathing. I was no better than I was before. I don’t even remember what school is anymore and my friends can’t even stand to be around me, like my presence was a subtle repelling aura.
Night comes and I don’t sleep, not like I used too. The dark embodies my room, leaves ruffle from outside; I shake. This nightmare won’t let me wake. It’s like I think this is all a dream that reality is just a demon encumbered fantasy. Blurry, everything is just a blur of nothing. But I live. I’m too afraid of death, afraid of the possibility of existing forever or not existing at all. Every night I write with lipstick on that very mirror “You can’t be you if you can’t see you” and every night I pray that I can see me – the old me.
Run - that’s all I could do. The image burned inside my mind etching an imprint of me on my membranes. Every single thought was a visual of me, of how I am. My feet moved at a quicker pace, as if the treadmill had turned up a gear. The imprint waved through my thoughts, consuming and reducing it to one single thing. I could not stand myself, how I looked or who I was. The wind lashed against me, a storm was brewing inside my mind and out. Clouds of grey boomed out a roar and I just kept on running.
The mirror - that was me. I saw myself for what I really was that moment. I wasn’t so revolting. I wasn’t as flawed or as big of a fuck up as I made myself believe.
Piercing, slowly edging and cutting its shape into the mirror, was the image. The shade inflated in size, until it had embodied the glass, leaving nothing to be seen but an imperfect shadow; a vision of myself. Everything was wrong about it; how it looked, how it smiled, how every microscopic particle was enlarged and magnified to absurd horror. My hands – why were they so small? Have they always been? Even in a two dimensional image you could see my stomach protrude and bulge forward, almost as if I had a sack of money stashed underneath my shirt. Wrong. I looked wrong. Sweat oozed like lava from my pores. My mind flashed to that one moment, that one voice, the one laugh that set me off. No, I’m not pretty. I never was pretty. That moment the hammer of realization collapsed on my skull, and I saw what he saw. I saw ugly.
The features in the glass transformed as my thoughts transformed. The more I hated myself the worse I looked, the less I could handle myself. My hands stroked the dark, greasy reflection of my hair. They traced the outline of it feeling every bump and imperfection. I touched the bulge and felt every cavity, every crease, and every atom that comprised that image. My eyes followed my hand and burned from looking. I couldn’t handle it. Anger sizzled inside and climaxed until I had broken the mirror with a concussion of slaps. The fragments created a mosaic of me, thousands of images reflecting a ghoul. Hands clutched to the pain of glass piercing skin. I cried. I don’t even think the pain is what made me cry. I cried because, I didn’t know what else to do but cry. I’d made a mess and I was a mess.
It all became so three dimensional, each embodiment of me seemed to jump out and grab me. Pulling. It felt like they were trying to grab me and suck me in. I couldn’t fight them.
“This is you”.
The weeks that followed were full of exercise and starvation. I would be pretty even if it killed me and it almost did. I wouldn’t eat more than a slice of bread a day. I covered my face so full of make-up that you could not see the slightest blemish or even notice that it was me under that mask. I ran everywhere. I ran until I couldn’t feel my legs, until that moment where you are so close to collapsing. I got uglier.
I had changed, drastically. The scale said I had lost weight, but I know I hadn’t. I was fatter than ever.
The mirror – why? This image – why? Why?
Months had past and I looked worse. In that mirror all I saw was the very same image that I had saw before, the fragments finally cleaned and the mirror replaced.
From my brain stemmed raw emotion, raw pain and loathing. I was no better than I was before. I don’t even remember what school is anymore and my friends can’t even stand to be around me, like my presence was a subtle repelling aura.
Night comes and I don’t sleep, not like I used too. The dark embodies my room, leaves ruffle from outside; I shake. This nightmare won’t let me wake. It’s like I think this is all a dream that reality is just a demon encumbered fantasy. Blurry, everything is just a blur of nothing. But I live. I’m too afraid of death, afraid of the possibility of existing forever or not existing at all. Every night I write with lipstick on that very mirror “You can’t be you if you can’t see you” and every night I pray that I can see me – the old me.
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