Mirror

Fri, 02/13/2015 - 14:23 -- AdrianT

 

I look to the canvas that is my mirror and I wonder ... what shall I paint today? 

I look to the canvas... wondering what I shall fill in the place of the nothing I see before me. 

Should it be the boy who got tired of wasting his breath speaking to the air, or the one who'd like to think that at least the air would listen? 

Does his hair cover his forehead as to hide the thoughts behind it -- thoughts so far out of this world that his head has long surpassed every layer of atmosphere to hold him back, every cloud and every star in the sky above? Or does he swoop it off to the side, pretending not to have such thoughts? 

Can his laugh and contorted smile fool everyone -- more importantly can they fool himself -- into thinking he has more confidence that he actually does? Or does his hollow smile fall short of fooling anyone? 

Will his thin blue cardigan hide his thin brown arms well enough? Is it enough to cover his flaws, and to draw the attention elsewhere? Is the thin blue cardigan thick enough to protect him from judging eyes -- from his own eyes? Or should he have something more?  

Should his face be turned in a certain way? Can some trick of the light enhance his looks from a certain angle? Will some unseen camera capture him from this angle and deem him worthy -- deem him beautiful? Or will each angle only serve to highlight all that is flawed? 

Is he the one crouched with his arms crossed, protecting his heart and soul from the pain of rejection --of unacceptance -- of disappointed looks, or is he the loud mask dominating the foreground? 

Is there some color paint which will hide his insecurities; which will hide the nothingness -- the emptiness he feels -- behind his contorted smile? Or does such a color not exist? 

... 

Looking at him now, I see that through a thin blue cardigan, and a contorted smile, he says to me,  "How can it  be? How can it be that I fit everywhere and haven't a place to belong? How can I be surrounded by love and still feel so alone?" ... What  I wonder the most is if I can use some brush stroke, some masterful technique to bless him with the answer to this question which plagues him so. 

 

Try as I may, he is a world away and can't hear me answer him... so I paint.  

I paint and I paint and I paint. 

Each stroke a letter, each color a word, forming the answers to each of his questions. 

I use that perfect color he likes ... the one that brings out his eyes, the one that makes his bronze skin glow, the one that makes his arms look bigger than he thinks they are, the one that turns the lie that is the loud mask in the foreground into truth. 

That color which gives him voice when he is silent, courage when he is afraid, and pride when he is insecure. 

Each stroke a letter, each color a word, answering each question to be had. 

… I've done it.... he's complete now. 

I show my mother, expecting pride in her son's great piece... she says the arms are still a bit small... 

I show my aunts, who say it doesn't look quite as masculine as it could. 

I show my uncles, who say he should be more sportsy. 

I show my cousins, who say that he could be more like them. 

I show my friends, who all say that he still speaks more than they'd like... 

 

Where did I go wrong? 

I look at him again, this time trying to magnify each flaw, each error that I've made, hoping to correct it somehow. I look at him.... I search his face, skipping over the dark circles, the mole by his lip, the largeness of his eyes, the "manliness" that he seems to be lacking.... and I find nothing. 

I find no error, for his eyes aren't that dark, his mole isn't that large, his eyes are proportionate to his face,  

He doesn't have to prove his manliness to me because I can see it on his face, I can see the kindness mistaken for unmanliness, I can see the refusal to be hurt, mistaken for apathy towards the world, I can see the gears in his head turn in a fashion unlike any other. I can see him. 

I can see him and his smile no longer looks contorted, it looks genuine, his laugh strikes my heart with happiness, I envy his fluency in body language, which radiates confidence. 

I look to my canvas.... I look to him.... I look at the piece of art that he is... 

I look to the canvas... I look to my mirror, to behold the beautifully simple nothing in front of me. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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