That mirror is grotesque. See that mirror over there? The one that covers the wall. It shows everything. And nothing. It shows me not smiling. Lies. I am always smiling.
The soft blankets and matching bed sheets look warm and inviting on the bed. Lies. I miss the duvet cover with no buttons, the ratty black and white blanket that some distant aunt bought me back in 2002. There’s a pile of soft fluffy towels with no holes in. Where the fuck are the holes? Why are there towels with no holes?
Reality isn’t worth the story they’ve sold you. The distractions the world passed off as necessities. Even that mirror, lies. You don’t need to even look into it to know. It’s not just waves of light, it’s your brain’s interpretation of that light. And the more you look into it, the more distorted that interpretation becomes.
Do you need to know every mark on your face at that level of detail? Every fold of your skin? Why? what purpose does it serve? Why must we look so closely at these things? Do we look so closely at our behaviour? Does the the mirror show that? If you’re looking. But who’s looking at behaviour? The mirror is a snapshot of the surface. It fools you into thinking that the surface is the part worth working on.
That’s why I drink. Not because I can’t stand the face staring back at me in the mirror. But because I can’t stand that the mirror exists to begin with. A mirror to the soul would be grand. A mirror to the inner psyche. But we don’t have that. Just fucking walls that shine our meat machines back at us in high definition.
FaerieFalls 