self portrait in a sunlit mirror
after Richard Siken’s “Self Portrait Against Red Wallpaper”
One day, early spring, I stepped outside in hopes that the sun would make me forget my own skin. I came back staring at it instead. Something had shifted. It would take my brain another month to wake up, another two for me to convince it to stop petulantly clinging to its safety checklist. Most people don't grow up because growth is unforgiving. Growth demands you hold your own gaze in the mirror long enough to hate yourself into a better person. Most people don't hate themselves. Yes, even those who claim they do—especially them. Those people have built temples out of their misery and they'd rather spend the rest of their lives in parasitic worship than turn their skin inside out and let the sun soak it back to life. Being in love with your own demolition is a tragic thing to be. Easy? Sure. Easy as childhood is easy. No wonder most people refuse to let it go. Why train your hands to row when you could just throw them up instead?
After all, isn’t surrender more seductive? Doesn’t everyone secretly crave oblivion, want back an ignorance long lost? Deep down, we all want God to steer the boat. Yes, even those of us who don’t believe in Him—especially us. No one enjoys life more than a fool or a child, so most people either become the former or remain the latter. When I relearned to love the shape of my hands, I thought I was regressing. I thought hanging my brain out to dry would feel harder. The world doesn’t make it seem easy because the world wants to keep everyone on a leash. And most people want to stay on a leash. Freedom and responsibility are one and the same. Freedom is that beautiful girl everyone lusts after but nobody wants to put in the work to be with. Misery, however? Misery won’t ask you to sacrifice your comfort. Its temple will keep you safe, so long as you promise to never stop worshiping.
