Mirror – Part 1

I have always wondered what it is about escape that makes it so inevitably attractive.

I thought I was a Carrie as I sat writing and smoking cigarettes full of tar in the balcony of my expensive sea-facing room. But after a long walk and intense reflection in front of a mirror, I feel more like the old man from Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, the Sea – the sixty-year-old, retired ex-playwright who moves into a little cottage by the sea and begins to pen down his memoirs, yet drifting, always drifting from the storyline and looping back to begin over, and finally letting his past drag him back.

I think it is the city that brings out our vices and our insecurities. The city me is awkward, clumsy, angry, depressed, spiteful, egoistic, weak, helpless. Back home, I die a little every day. Back home it is always night, and the night brings no sleep, and there’s darkness hanging from the ceiling and descending onto your fingertips. Back in the city, mirrors are magic; selfies they are called and they cover up blemishes, haze over the corpulence, and reflect distortions of the truth.

The seaside me is, well, happy. The ocean has been a far better mirror. I can hear the chirps in my head again, I can even dance to the brass beats of my mind. I may still be dying, but I am living a little as I die. I may still hate myself, but I am letting the ocean, the wind and the solitude love me just a little.


Continue reading Part 2

Running Away

“I was barefoot, and running as fast as I could. The sun beat down relentlessly, threatening to sear my skin off through the layers of clothing that clung to my body, soaked in sweat. I was breathing hard, and yet my legs would not give up. I could hear my heart beat with the rhythm of my feet pounding on the blazing hot, hard ground below. The desert stretched endlessly for miles. Nowhere to hide. 

I felt myself slow down as realization caught light and began to burn, like the embers of coal beneath my feet. I felt his eyes on my back, and something sparked within me. I found myself shedding off all my layers, one by one, until finally I stopped running and turned to face him, buck naked. I stand before you, my beauty and blemishes laid bare for your eyes. I am not running any more. 

I have let him see me for the way I truly am. No layers or cover-ups, just me. And now I hold my breath and wait for his response.”

I open my eyes and realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out in a huff. I’m still not sure if it was a dream or my unusually vivid imagination taking flight through my sleepless night. But the raw truth behind the scene forces me to sit up and look hard.

What am I running away from? Intimacy? Pain? Heartbreak? No.

I run with the fear of some one peeking into my mind and soul, and not liking what they see. I fear that his heart, so white and pure, may not comprehend the shadows over mine. A fear that he may not be able to understand the pain and darkness that entice me, and my penchant for recklessness, rebelliousness, and immoral wrong-doings.  The fear that he may not be able to love me with my dark side.

And so I run, into my abyss of loneliness, the desert of emptiness. My escape from unraveling, and my retreat into myself.

He has my love, but he craves intimacy. What is intimacy if I do not let him know me? What is love if I cannot be completely myself with him?

I’ll never know… until I stop running and let him see me for who I am.

I close my eyes, and conjure up another half-dream. I feel him take my hand and lead me out of my desert of emptiness. My fear has not yet dissipated, but I’m not running away any more.