08-12-2016, 01:48 PM
I only occasionally shave now, so when I do decide to tear off this greying attempt-of-a-beard, I know
the mirror is waiting for me to display my latest morning-matinee.
I lather my face, clumsily search for a razor that hasn't magically turned into a cold-chisel and make
sure the water hasn't turned into the same stuff Arctic Char enjoy swimming in. All of the standard
proceedure and what most men do, I suppose.
But the mirror knows differently.
That cheap, circular reflective glass on it's single steel leg sees the other guy, the craggy-chinned
darker-one grinning at himself because he made it through another night. Oh, I know he's there...
just to the left of my view when I glance up from my retrieval of a razor sans female leg-hair.
As the blade tugs and then rasps across my throat, I feel him watching from behind my eyes, the
vigilant one that I rarely ponder on now in my older years. 'Careful...' I hear him say softly with a
mocking tone that hints of selfish reasons and a deep knowing of such flesh-rendering implements.
I catch myself from checking my gaze and making it look like I wish to recognise his reality.
I am shaving nothing more, I am shaving.
The white foam with it's itchy-contents becomes smaller and smaller as the fresh-faced 'me' appears
in the steam-kissed mirror and the view causes a genuine smile on my lips. The day is waking up too
and I'd better get on with the small tasks I've convinced myself are important.
'He's gone for now' I whisper into the towel and selfishly soak in the shadowed-softness of the material
as the plug-hole gurgles a ballad without a beat.
....................
My arm is cold and wet, but the windows look better. The sills still need something more abrasive than
elbow-grease to take away the winter's deposits of dirt. Maybe I should dare myself to climb my ladders
and clean the bedroom windows...? Maybe I could venture up there where the wind blows?!
Wringing the sponge out in the greying soapy water, I think upon what I glimpsed in the mirror earlier.
Is it really me...? A split-personality that refuses to acknowledge it's other half? Surely that type of ego
-perception belongs in a fictional story or a chuckled-yarn from the asylum!
I gather myself and stand upright to see if I can make a better-job of the blanched-crud some passing bird
left and stare straight into the face of the other guy from this morning.
Some would explain and with a bored expression -no doubt, that I was merely looking at my reflection
again, some might even snort with mirth and mouth the word 'loony'
I certainly wouldn't blame them.
The face was leaner, I've always known that and his mouth seems to have a cruel twist to it.
But the eyes... the staring eyes that know my sins, they seem so full of potential hate and oblivious to
affection.
Oh God... and he's in the house.
(Forgive me...! I know it belongs in 'Short Stories' but I couldn't resist!!)
the mirror is waiting for me to display my latest morning-matinee.
I lather my face, clumsily search for a razor that hasn't magically turned into a cold-chisel and make
sure the water hasn't turned into the same stuff Arctic Char enjoy swimming in. All of the standard
proceedure and what most men do, I suppose.
But the mirror knows differently.
That cheap, circular reflective glass on it's single steel leg sees the other guy, the craggy-chinned
darker-one grinning at himself because he made it through another night. Oh, I know he's there...
just to the left of my view when I glance up from my retrieval of a razor sans female leg-hair.
As the blade tugs and then rasps across my throat, I feel him watching from behind my eyes, the
vigilant one that I rarely ponder on now in my older years. 'Careful...' I hear him say softly with a
mocking tone that hints of selfish reasons and a deep knowing of such flesh-rendering implements.
I catch myself from checking my gaze and making it look like I wish to recognise his reality.
I am shaving nothing more, I am shaving.
The white foam with it's itchy-contents becomes smaller and smaller as the fresh-faced 'me' appears
in the steam-kissed mirror and the view causes a genuine smile on my lips. The day is waking up too
and I'd better get on with the small tasks I've convinced myself are important.
'He's gone for now' I whisper into the towel and selfishly soak in the shadowed-softness of the material
as the plug-hole gurgles a ballad without a beat.
....................
My arm is cold and wet, but the windows look better. The sills still need something more abrasive than
elbow-grease to take away the winter's deposits of dirt. Maybe I should dare myself to climb my ladders
and clean the bedroom windows...? Maybe I could venture up there where the wind blows?!
Wringing the sponge out in the greying soapy water, I think upon what I glimpsed in the mirror earlier.
Is it really me...? A split-personality that refuses to acknowledge it's other half? Surely that type of ego
-perception belongs in a fictional story or a chuckled-yarn from the asylum!
I gather myself and stand upright to see if I can make a better-job of the blanched-crud some passing bird
left and stare straight into the face of the other guy from this morning.
Some would explain and with a bored expression -no doubt, that I was merely looking at my reflection
again, some might even snort with mirth and mouth the word 'loony'
I certainly wouldn't blame them.
The face was leaner, I've always known that and his mouth seems to have a cruel twist to it.
But the eyes... the staring eyes that know my sins, they seem so full of potential hate and oblivious to
affection.
Oh God... and he's in the house.
(Forgive me...! I know it belongs in 'Short Stories' but I couldn't resist!!)
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.