Who are you, to so boldly look back out of the mirror at me? I don’t even recognise you anymore. I tell myself ‘that’s you Jon, that is you’ but it’s not. It looks like me but it isn’t. There’s something in those eyes that I have never seen before, and let me tell you this now, I’ve seen my eyes a lot. I mean, they’re my own fucking eyes. But it’s all changed now hasn’t it? Yes. Yes it has. Physically the eyes are not mine either. Dark bags hang below them, almost as if they became any larger they would become pendulous. The rest of the face fared no different. There was a gauntness to the cheeks that was barely hidden behind a thinning, grey, uneven beard. But that’s not the most alarming thing to have changed.
The sadness that permeates from the eyes that look back out at me, drains any chance of happiness I could have ever hoped for, and god only knows what it makes other people who gazed upon them feel.
There’s an anger there too, a deep seated, stubborn, irrational anger at yourself and the world fuelled by jealousy and self-loathing and IT’S JUST NOT FAIR. It’s not fucking fair.
Looking deeper, just past the anger, is a well of loneliness, bubbling away fresh in your soul. You feel this for a myriad of reasons; abandoned, unworthy, useless, non-essential, easily disposable bag of meat and bones. Those eyes scream “CAST ASIDE, NO LONGER NEEDED”, those five words branded on your heart to now be scarred there for the rest of time and they’re not something a bit of bio-oil can help fade. In your dark fugue you’ve pushed everyone away, deciding your own fate. All you have to do is reach back out and touch, feel, sense their presence and you’ll realise they never left, not really. Just back on the bench waiting to be called out when necessary. But your pride won’t allow you to come crawling back will it.
I look deep into those eyes and I see no shred of anything I once knew about myself, therefore that can’t be me can it? Or am I just gazing upon my reflection in a moment of clarity? Because if so, if that truly is, one hundred percent what I have become, then I refuse to carry on that way. If this is me wiping the condensation from the window that I have hidden my true self behind then I am going to find a metaphorical brick and through said brick through the fucking window and watch as it all comes crumbling down.
I’m lost and alone and my pride will not let me send out an SOS, so it’s time for me to fight my way to the top, tooth and nail. I will get myself up top because if I don’t recognise myself any more, I sure as shit can’t love myself. And if I can’t love myself, how could you ever?
Jon, if it is you looking back at me from whatever reflective prison you’re in I want you to know I am coming for you. We need to become whole again.