I confront the mirror, but my other self simply stares back, blank, detached.
It has always been this way.
I curse, gesticulate, am animated in my objections, my questions, my discontent. I wear suffering as a fine garment, draping myself in sackcloth and ashes.
But he quietly stands there, serene, seemingly at peace.
I construct stories, rationalize choices, demand some acknowledgment of my efforts, my wounds. I puff up my chest to hide my fears and doubts.
Year after year, I age, suffer the injustices of time. Gray hair thickens around my temples. I fight the clock and know I am always losing.
He is unchanged, unmoved. It has always been this way.
There is something about his eyes, some frustrating depth of kindness that calms me even when I hate his aloofness. His constant presence keeps me anchored, feels like being submerged in baptismal over and over again.
I feel that he knows me . . . .