Vanity would not be the right word at this point, though its close.
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Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Reflection Sees it All
Previously: The reflection leaned against the almirah mirror, intently reading into its owner on other side of that wafer-thin barrier. He could see himself over several years from this close. He could read on his face what it felt like with on those days. He could see how bad he was at his own authority - every muscle seemed to have a sovereign reign which is why he couldn't fan either of his ears. He could see the fractured appeal of his fractured noseline, now in a new shade of tan thanks to a week in the Leh sun. He could make out, for the first time, of the look of a shamed conscience, as in when a slave is scolded by his god. He could think of several goofy muscle-configurations that make him ever-less likely to fornicate. He could notice that he would not age well. He could make out that he was stocking on too much sesame. He could conjecture that he has been arrested in development and lost in translation, from the fact of his single look. He could see the asymmetry in the division of his face - since his discovery of unsymmetrical left and right feet, this was concerning. He then combed through his hair with his fingers, to collect them in a bunch and pull them back, as if he were fashioning a ponytail; he could see how that smoothed the fabric of wrinkles on his forehead, and wondered if a good crop on the top would serve a cosmetic solution to old age.
Vanity would not be the right word at this point, though its close.
Vanity would not be the right word at this point, though its close.
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