Updated 01:04, Tuesday, October 11, 2022.
Brethren, how could you ask me “face the mirror?” How could you trust that it can tell you everything about me? How can mere reflection speak of me? Or of anyone.
Yes, my face wears fine and deep lines. . . . but aren’t we all at the mercy of time? Yes, my hairs are often uncombed. . . . mind sparing me a comb? And yes, my lips turned mauve. . . . inflation is such a bummer—I’m sure you know.
But those are not all who I am. I ask not for sympathy; but empathy and understanding can make you a better man. Compassion is divine.
Truth: The mirror is ignorant. . . . of the throes of my mind, battling external and internal enemies; of the weight on my shoulders, enduring given to-dos—I didn’t even sign; of the lading at my feet, trying so hard to head north even with just a dime.
Such an ignoramus, a true dunce. . . . it cannot speak for the heart I give to my love and passion; it cannot speak for my spirit, though in ruins but is relentless in carrying on; it cannot speak for the breadth and depth of my soul, ever rallying and laboring for a meaningful cause.
It can’t be stressed enough: blind spot is real. . . . of which mirror is ill.