The years have been cruel. This cannot be my image I see before me…
…My answer to the Triond forum writing challenge round 13, where something is to be written using the words “rusty nail” and “netting”.
Through the Looking Glass via Wikipedia
I stare at the image before me and wonder once again how did I get here; how is it that I am this face peering back at me? Within I don’t fully recall the years that have ravaged the mask of flesh hanging from my bone. The pain, the torment, the struggle, the sins, painted upon me by a master of decay. In many ways I still feel like a child, divorced from the reality that consumes my existence and demands my attention; a reality that forces me from a releasing and energising fantasy. I am a child looking at my father…or so I wish. The eyes once so pure are now ravaged with blemishes, discolouration and fissures of blood. One who was insightful enough could perhaps read the history of my life from the journal left imprinted on my eyes. The centre of blackness used to reveal a mystery of the ages, a timeless soul, but now just shows an emptiness of sorrow and apprehension for what is to come in the remainder of my days.
I pick up the brush from the clean white porcelain surface and run it through the remainder of my hair – at least it is not a chore that takes long. Habitually I inspect the plastic scalp scourers to determine how much less hair I have to claim for this day. Strange…strange it is to see a hair that I cannot recognise as my own. A single strand of pure blonde hair is seen entwined with the more familiar black course wire that sprouts from my pores. A blonde hair cannot be, for I live alone and have not felt the comfort of woman for many a year. Still, the mind is able to dismiss it for there must be a reason for this uninvited yet intriguing guest; a reason that is beyond my tired comprehension on this gray morning.
I brush my teeth and feel some comfort that I still have them all, and all are in good health. They were the one thing that I had bothered to ensure were maintained regularly throughout my life – if only I had paid such attention to the other areas of my being. They were not perfect for sure, and had my parents been fortunate enough in my youth then they would have assuredly been braced into conformity. Indeed I am regularly reminded it is never too late to bare the metal grin; however I also regularly retort that if I could survive high school with a crooked grin then it was not something that consumed my concerns anymore. Still, perhaps I would be more inclined to smile if indeed I sported a super-star set of ivory. I rinse the chemical cocktail from my mouth and am surprised that the frothy paste expelled is of a bluish hue. This is not expected for I do not buy toothpaste that is blue – always white – I am if nothing else a creature of habit.
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