I feel MY face

I find my face in the mirror. It barely looks present. But, there I am. My eyes come in and out of focus with life—a surface gleam of hope. Thoughts are similar to my days: repetitive and ritualistic. An echoing sounding something like, “I wonder whether all this nonsense is hurting me.” My eyes an open wound. Father says, “When you wake each morning, you decide where you want to spend your day—in hell or in heaven. You can live heavenly, but you have to want to.” By you, he means, us all. I tell him I want to write a novel with choices being the thematic. For example, I continue, “You’re walking past the bodega on 9th street, you go to grab a fruit—a fugi apple or a bosc pear—what will it be? Your bed facing to the window or the door—how may it change the way you feel? Opening up your eyes and deciding to act or to stay thinking—can your reaction change your life?” These are all choices—I tell him—all a weighing of wants. 

I take a shower—try to prolong time, drag it out, make it last, wonder whether if you concentrate hard enough you can suspend water as it comes falling on your skin. I stretch out on the bath floor—savor the sound of water cascading down my spine—close my eyes and try to believe I am in a rain forest—a hot moisture, like a heavy breath, embraces my no longer visible skeletal back. I feel and think two different things at once. I feel ridiculous lying in a shower—feel ridiculous that I need to savor shower moments in an attempt to steal extra time to breathe. And I think in dialogue with myself—trying to give myself a pep-talk—how to begin this day on a new note, change, take action, be proactive. Thought: “Is writing encouraging me to go crazy?” Then I wonder whether I am wasting water—whether activists would want to start a riot outside my bathroom door. I feel guilty, savor an extra few seconds of the shower and then, step out. 

I oil my entire body and sadly admit that no make up would cover up these awful dark circles, like mud, beneath my eyes. On the couch, my sister stares at me. “What is it?” I ask—knowing I should not care and knowing it will not be anything I will feel better knowing. Your face is looking beautiful, but, oh please be careful with your eyes. You have to start wearing sunscreen. I can already see the damage. And I myself worry too… Blah, blah, blah. I turn and look at her, and notice that her eyes look as if they are holding my face—as if inside her hands there is safety—as if my face is my most fragile entity—as if my eyes are glass. I have the worst headache of the year. I always feel under pressure. I wonder whether the writing has become too much, too much, too much, too much. I tell blank that it is too much “me, me, me, me, me”, too many Is, too many eyes. I gotta get out, I say. Before I leave him, blank asks me if I can spend the weekend writing about someone else, describing something I admire. I immediately begin trying to locate that one person in my mind. I can tell he thinks I want to dismiss his idea—I don’t—not at all. Blank says, he thinks it will be a good idea—a good way of finding something external—of reaching my goal. I know I don’t need the encouragement. I know he is right—I want to get rid of the “I” and “me”. I walk home, loving the city streets, but wondering whether Manhattan is just too much on me right now—whether I need to begin looking elsewhere for next fall. I wonder whether I am always running—whether I am always trying to avoid myself—whether I am fearful of my shadow not standing before me as I go walking.