The first time I looked at a mirror, I had plenty of faults with myself. I wanted glossier hair, straighter teeth, a slimer body, bigger eyes. I envisioned the girl with red lips at school; took an imaginary knife with my own hands and did plastic surgery with the picture I saw. It wasn’t the only operation I did, it was simply the first and most tedious one. Perhaps it was my skilled hands which already familiarized themselves with the grotesques and jaunts of my body, or maybe it was my scrutiny at those little imperfections I disdained that allowed the second and thirds and subsequent changes to be smooth and easy and quick and painless.
Those changes were absolutely necessary — or so I thought. I was no longer the socially excluded one, but the one who chose the victims of exclusion. The girls with the oversized black glasses and it-girl wannabes, they were all pitiful old me. One by one I picked the fresh, ripe fruits before abandoning their corpses to the vultures of wildfire gossips. I played them, and I savoured the game to the very last drop I could squeeze.
School is now far past me and so is my playing queen of hearts. Left with a face I cannot identify and a split personality, it finally dawned on me that the first time I looked in the mirror was also the very last time I looked at myself. I’m nothing but a facade trying to impersonate every other more flawless facades I encounter. I consist of multitudes of facades.
At the end of the day, who am I then?
It is more tempting to adopt a personality rather than create one when the latter means having to be alone, but sometimes loneliness can still strike even when surrounded by people you thought will love you.
” Is it working? Are they loving you for who you are pretending to be? ” – 24.11.2015