By Myra Gupta
Gazing at a reflection fills me with unrelenting truth. It floods and roars inside my veins, aching to burst into my soul. I stare at the innocent eyes of a younger me- wondering if what she hoped would come true. And despite my deepest wish, I cannot promise her anything. Because the two parts of me, empathy and disgust, blend together to be me.
The sweet voice of a child, the calm before the storm, laughs a full-wide toothed smile. And I can’t say I’m not impressed. The fragility that younger me was praised for is something I now shroud, and I can’t seem to figure out why.
‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’- yet the question is, is anything ever deemed to be trash? Fallen flowers make bouquets of love and weeping tears flow into the ink of a letter that makes someone feel loved.
The mirror paints a portrait of all my tainted pasts and pieces it together like a glass painting to speculate and criticize. I feel the stern eyes surfing over my body. A hint of empathy buried deep under the surface. The mirror shatters to show me the shattered pieces of me.
‘This too shall pass.’ I tell myself, but minutes turn into years, yet I still have the same unwavering thought in my head- ‘This too shall pass.’. My mother's soothing voice floats on me as my stern eyes look at the broken mirror. If eyeshadow and glitter can shroud and give me confidence. I shall drown myself in the sparkle that slowly turned into poison. The fragility that blooms inside my heart can a bud into a wilted flower. Growing up makes me miss nostalgia. The more I turn away from who I was, the more unknown I become to myself.
I can’t help but seal parts of the glass painting, the corners of the painting that make it so sharp. Afraid that the prick may make someone leave, not realizing it might not even be me. The hate, anger and fragility that I cover with close-lipped smiles, is what makes me; me.
I will always adore the mirror, the nostalgia that fills me when I stare at myself. And I can’t say it’s all negative. What makes me write, what makes me breathe, the vessel in which I get to experience me- is the most precious thing. Each fragile part of my body will be known inch to inch, the best- by me. And so, I believe the younger me will always be my inspiration, my scintilla.
The mirror is a slap in the face, that sets you straight and might even get your head back in the game. The mirror is the unrelenting truth that makes me. The broken mirror I see is a shattered me pieced together, waiting to be found. And I preach to adore every piece of it.
Nevertheless, what I see in me is who I wish to be. Who I ache to be- and that, ironically, is just the old version of me.
By Myra Gupta
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