a bitter sweet flip

“She saw herselves. She let the cataclysm of emotions and the purge of thoughts clash and cascade between her and her image into a long awaited vacuum. She watched herself separate into two beings as she floated on tip toes in front of the bathroom mirror. The mirror is guarded on each side by two matching lamps hanging vigil on the bathroom wall. It reflected the beauty and the ugliness contained within her that have taken her so long to notice and understand when she was not looking and when she looked away. It is like a patient witness to her many states of altered perceptions and soul undress. A mirror that questioned the image it reflected but held no answers that it could utter since the voice did not come from its side. A mirror that carved a new path in her head to take a good long hard look at it and confront her biggest demon: herself.

The twin lamps lit her face up. The soft yellow beams of light landed on her hair strands and glowed. Her fingers found their way in between some strands of hair and remembered the haunting memories carried with every strand. She caressed and massaged the strands, the texture, all causing a sort of calm and ecstasy as she tugged her fingers in and out of the strands.  She smiles. She blows a heavy breath. She chuckles at herself. Her breaths shorten and her heart reduces pace. She wanders in her stare. She licks her lips; they feel supple, fuller, moist. She tastes the bitterness at the back of her throat, her tongue runs along the coarse ceiling inside the top of her mouth, the viscid saliva is swallowed, the metal of her retainer is set tight against the back of her lower teeth and feels cold. She watches her throat as she swallows and hears it clapping in her ears.

The chattering voices in the distance grow faint. The melodies and harmonies escaping from the speakers flow like silk ribbons in the air so far away. She is stuck. She is stuck between herself and the image in the mirror. Bumps, lines, pores, grease, stories, skillfully engraved along the years as she travels across her face with her fingertips. Even the baby hairs are felt. That odd little thick hair, too, on the side of her chin. Her eyelashes bow down further as the seconds, or perhaps eternities, go by . She remains fixed in her self-gaze. Her whole body nearly sways and her tip toes anchors onto the ground. And even though her eyes become merely slivers she still sees through them as if through wide tunnels. Guided by the light at the end of it. She holds onto the sides of the cold sink and attempts to stand still. There is much love between herself and reflection in the mirror. And there is much hatred as well. The classic self-loathing. The prepubescent unrest carried into womanhood still sprouts roots to regrow the agony of pasts relentlessly present in the shadows of her mind; lurking, waiting to plunge head first with fear and cowardice and a sense of loss.”

Author: noramorta

For the first time after years of deliberation and procrastination, I move from the old fashioned pen and paper to display the consequences of my bad decisions, my inflated mixed emotions and my awkward findings on life.

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