Sometimes I look into a mirror and I don’t find myself looking back at me. It is my face in many ways, and yet there is something there that is completely and utterly foreign to me. It’s literally as though another person were hiding behind the glass of the mirror, and looking at me instead of my reflection. There is something peculiar about the whites of my eyes that don’t seem quite right: there is something there that stands out to me and yet blends in with the rest of my features. It is I. It is not I. I am not sure who this person is, or why they are lurking in the shadows of the whites of my eyes. I am not sure why they hide behind the darkness cast on my face by a dark curtain of hair falling in front of it. I am puzzled by the cold ring of grey that circles the green of my irises and keeps the color trapped within a wall, for that is not I, either. The more I stare at myself, the hollower I become. Shadows pitted at the shallow areas of my face, pressing deeper into my skin. Her lips part, as do mine. And yet I cannot help but thing that the two of us were going to say completely different things, following the same train of thought that lead me to this puzzling conclusion. I am me. I am not me.
- Georgiana <3
Musing's of a: liberal republican/conservative democrat, choral student, dreamer, artist, writer, philosophical teenager... isn't than an oxymoron?
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