Face

May 26th:

Maybe social anxiety is just code for narcissism; AKA I affect the mood of the room, am aware of space I’m taking up. It’s a kind of self-obsession, an uncontrollable penchant for introspection; it could drown us, should we stare too deeply into reflections. As a child, reading myths with my father from a book whose pages were lined with gold, I had a grudging respect for Narcissus; perhaps he was simply a poetic soul, desperate to understand the conditions of his existence. His handsomeness an outward excuse to try, and fail, to look within. Ultimately, he was incorporated into his own specter, swallowed by the glassy mirage of humanity. Here he performed an impossible feat, reconciling his imaginary and his image; and, in exchange, he forfeited his soul.

My better side is the left (my left) of my face. Though digging into its reflection, I cannot discern why. I could stand for hours peering into me and see nothing but acne scars and chin hairs, features I’m sure even great models bear. How is perfect still edgy, also glamorous, though homogenous to the point of sickening? Who do I find beautiful? Have I seen them in the early morning, when their eyes have yet to fully open… witnessed their innocence peeking from wrinkled lids like newborn pups’? Have I watched them crinkle their noses in laughter, disgust, nostrils exposed… the eyes rolled back in their heads like they’re seeing ghosts, right there in their mind?

I think too much on the way I look,

and too much on the ways other people should look,

and the ways we’re looking at each other, all the time.

Covering reflective surfaces would do nothing but start ugly rumors of vampirism. I would still go outside, seek humbling from the world’s faces; their symmetrical sunglasses on straight, slight noses, over perfect wet lips and dimpled chins. Beauty, the beholder; if you know, then you know. Margaret Qualley’s jaw is a bit fucked up looking. Now it’s becoming clear I’ve nothing constructive to say.