In many cultures, mirrors are the objects of beliefs, rituals and
stories. Their ability to reflect what we otherwise can't see is mystic,
magical, ambiguous. Somehow it seems as if they show the world that doesn't
exist; a world inside our mind, behind our eyelids; our core, something planted
inside us.
Our souls.
When someone dies,
every mirror in the house should be turned backwards or covered with a cloth,
they say. It should prevent once freed soul to house itself in there.
Mirrors are
soulsnatchers.
She lives inside my
mirror, that's why I don't like looking in it.
They ask me: but you do take selfies, what difference does it make? What
do you see there?
She appears sometimes, when she's least expected, when I am caught unprepared; but just like everyone else, I try taking postures, making expressions and testing different angles until I can't see her anymore. In fact I see many different people and I can change myself to the face I am happy with at that specific moment. It is not the matter of vanity; I can simply choose my mask, my skin, my colour, my smile. With every snap I can point to something else. Sometimes I can fake sparkles and anyone'd mistake them for kindness of my soul or a genuine happiness.
She appears sometimes, when she's least expected, when I am caught unprepared; but just like everyone else, I try taking postures, making expressions and testing different angles until I can't see her anymore. In fact I see many different people and I can change myself to the face I am happy with at that specific moment. It is not the matter of vanity; I can simply choose my mask, my skin, my colour, my smile. With every snap I can point to something else. Sometimes I can fake sparkles and anyone'd mistake them for kindness of my soul or a genuine happiness.
(But the truth is: the shine comes from inside pupil's dark matter -
only beside you. That's another story, though, my Sun).
Electronic devices hold our moods and skins we can change, but mirror,
mirror...it mirrors the death inside me: past words, sounds, feelings, pain I
(thought) I've left behind.
It shows her, whom I don't want to see.
It shows her, whom I don't want to see.
She is ugly, her face is swollen with tears, her lips are pale, her eyes
are empty. She is fat; she is big, bigger than a mirror, than a chair, than a
classroom, she doesn't fit anywhere. Her hands, her palms, are enormous, and
her facial hair is growing there in front of me. Her breasts are useless ugly
empty sacks; she is not a woman enough. She is not good enough, she is not
enough; she is worthless, she is nothing; she's never achieved anything, she
could never become a grown up; she's oversized, grotesquely deformed child.
Surrounding her, human vultures can feel her weakness, incompetence, ignorance,
insecurity.
She smells and looks like defeat;
decay; she is a complete and utter failure.
I want to hold her, to comfort her.
...and I want to break the mirror she lives inside, stab her with all
the little pieces, pierce her eyes so that she cannot stare back at me; her
eardrums so she cannot hear: "...fat, fatso, smile, behave, stop eating,
that's enough, you can't have it, you should do more exams, you should lose
weight, you are lazy, snap out of it, you complain to much, you expect too
much, good bye, good bye, maybe some other time...", I want to put her
down, put her to sleep, I don't want to ever see her again.
I want to heal and to shine, I want to see million sparkles in her eyes
and hair; the bliss of her uterus, my uterus, my eyes, my hair, my fingers, my
voice.
I want the mirror to smile back at me.
Ayna, ayna, sihirli ayna.
Mirror, mirror, enchanting mirror.
Speak the beauty, the worth, the love for her. For me.
photo:
http://rebloggy.com/post/black-and-white-creepy-face-grunge-scream-broken-mirror-dark-strange-dead-woman/102635879324
