I have over one hundred stitches on my body,
and am perfectly comfortable with them all.
I have an intact face,
but can’t stand looking in the mirror.
-W.E.
Ok, so you have a part of me that in thirty eight years I have never said to a living soul, just something I buried so deep that I could not even muster an expression for it. Perhaps it was never the time. Thirty eight years is a damn long time though. I usually grasp things a lot quicker.
Now that I am aware of it, I don’t know what to do with it. How do I deal with this awareness, this knowledge, this disgust, this superficial way of viewing myself?
Yes I am aware, it is superficial but it must mean something. Why can’t I stand looking at myself and why have I not resorted to changing my image if it is so painful to look at?
Maybe that is why I have always watched myself, watching you, watching me and manoeuvred my gaze, my speech, my heart, away from revealing too much of myself in person, playing the layman, the normal, somewhat acceptable ordinary. The distant ordinary, the shy ordinary, the observer ordinary.
I seem to have less issues writing about my image than I do looking at my image, again, why is that?
Shit, like clockwork, my wife just showed me a picture of our wedding day and I couldn’t look at myself.
This is gonna take me on a whole new level of fucked up now. Hey, at least I have a muse for a month or so, maybe a year.
-W.E.
lonerloaner 