Vanity for a mirror, A post for a fever

I love when the time comes every night to switch off the lights, when I let my hair fall loose and free on my shoulders, when I climb into my bed and crawl under my quilt, when I wear my glasses and place my notebook on my lap, when I plug my earphones in and listen to my sad sad pain ridden music and finally, when I get to tap my thoughts away at my keyboard. If I haven’t been to lazy, or if I’m in the mood, there’ll be a hot mug of herbal tea by my bedside, the steam dancing against slight rays of light from a nightstand lamp, moving to the beat of a ceiling fan rushing past me as fast as it can.

If I was a scented candle kind of gal, it would really complete this picture. But I’m not, though I keep getting them as birthday gifts, fated to gather dust behind some old books.

Sometimes, when I haven’t looked into a mirror for a seemingly long time, I stare at my reflection and think to myself that I might just be pretty.

Most times I tire of my own face. The days go by and the bags under my eyes look darker to me, the skin covering my face becomes either too fair or not dark enough, lips too thin, nose too big, eyes too small, face too flat.

I’m usually too busy looking at the details… Choosing a colour to fog my eyes, painting my lips, brightening my cheeks, brushing my teeth, parts, parts, parts and parts. Then all of a sudden, like just now, I would look up from the sink and see myself, whole. It’s disturbing how I had gotten so engrossed in details that I didn’t recognize myself at first. I had to peer in closer just to make sure. The girl looking back didn’t seem all bad, I thought. At least until tomorrow morning when all I see will be plain me. Pores gathered to look like skin, skin gathered to look like features, features gathered to look like a human face.

I can’t ever be one of those girls who exhibit a loud conviction in appearance, nor one of those girls who inhibit a quiet confidence in appearance. I sputter, stutter, trip, make faces, hide behind my glasses, become awkward, nervous, self conscious, self- bsorbed, not bothered, shy. It almost always ends with my foot ending up jammed into my mouth. I want to be any other kind of girl, the kind who doesn’t cringe at herself.