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I spend a lot of time with mirrors. I mean exactly what it sounds like. Hours of my life, likely a full year, has been spent gazing in a mirror trying to make sense of myself.
I can’t.
It’s a bit odd, seeing myself. Would I look any different if I didn’t know this was me? Would my eyes sparkle a bit more brightly, would the lines on my face be even more profound?
I write with shaking hands and a weary figure. My skin feels just as velveteen as it did the day I was born, but in it I can easily spy inconsistencies. Small, contorted blue veins trace the inside of my forearm, leading to some exasperated aorta that just wants a break. But anatomy tells me that it’ll keep heaving and sighing to keep me alive.
If I was a genius, I’d flaunt my degrees and probe inside flawed bodies, trying to to scope out the little inconsistencies, and perhaps then I would feel less alone.
With so much time spent lost in my own reflection, you figure I’d find it hard to see beauty in anything but myself. It’s quite the opposite. There’s something poetic in the way a cigarette looks when its ashes are ready to break away. Scraps of paper littering a desk make up a biography. And the little inconsistencies in the form of a man make him interesting enough that I want to possess that beauty, if only for a second.
Jagged shoulders speak to me. Tired eyes make me want to get closer. Sometimes I dream of probing a stranger and making them tell me the story behind every little bruise and scar, so I can weave together a life imperfect and profound.

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