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The mirror

The mirror

When you look in the mirror, what do you see? 

...a wounded shadow that refuses to look back for fear of what it will see? 

...eyes that look longingly at what's just beyond the edge of the mirror? 

...lips that ache to whisper what's really inside but scared that once it passes them it will come true? 

...hands that are reaching out to touch and caress the air, dreaming that there's something solid to actually touch and caress? 

...a nose that's afraid to breathe in the elusive scent that it has smelled all its life but now feels cloying and suffocating? 

...a face that seems as familiar as life but at times feels like a stranger trying to crawl out of the mirror and threatening to take over your life? 

 

Do you dare to look straight at the mirror and see yourself as you really are?

Or would you like to paint over the cracks and the blemishes and the freckles and the uneven features first?

Or do you stare and stare and stare until you see what you actually want to see? 

Or do you refuse to look until eventually you disappear? 

 

I dare you to look at the mirror. 

Then tell me what you see.  

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And yet, sometimes I do

And yet, sometimes I do

On celebrating birthdays past the age of 30

On celebrating birthdays past the age of 30