My mirror is a teller of tales. I usually hope these are tall, handsome tales but generally they are well rounded and to the point. I wish to see the same potential in the mirror that I hold in sight for my upcoming day but like the inclement weather, there is no worse friend than a mirror that tells truths to no end. I must appreciate its honesty. I have no control over this glass that wishes me well, that shows me swell, that can reveal only my outer shell and scars that have not faded all so well.
It speaks of flaws, it showers me with confidence, and it keeps me young. I feel well looking into this mirror just as my sickness shows none too clearer than in this image of errors. Why must we trust such a reflection? I may draw a scene but only may I rarely capture its true essence; what it actually is. I have a mirror for validation, a mirror to chart my dilapidation, and a mirror so firm in my state of trepidation.
In mirrors, we trust. The reflection of vanity, the insanity to fulfilling a dysmorphic reality, I find it a tragedy for those who see themselves as less than they are. The stars distant despite their bright appearance are left to be admired, shamed only for lack of confidence. We are all caught out in the wrong when the long, beautiful figures in the reflection appear not to belong in our eyes. We are the product of lies. The truth is that we are acceptable despite the harsh realities that capsize our tiny vessels of confidence.
I have made a good friend of my mirror, as truthful as I allow it to be despite the morning peek that was once a calamitous endeavor bearing marks of escapades and nighttime tremors. As I now look within, I take back what is still mine, despite rain or shine, I will be me whether fat, thin, bald, or hairline only slightly reclined.