Keep the Faith

At times I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, just a small glimpse since I can barely ever dare look into one. And, astonished at what I have just seen, I will turn around to stare directly into it. It's not narcissism; it could never be such a preposterous thing. Still, I'll look into it and wonder. Are the dips and curves shaping that pale skin shaping my face? Are those lips, soft and supple, truly mine? Are those eyes, shining dully behind prescribed glass mine? Do they truly gleam in that peculiar olive green color? Do they really reside in those sockets contained in so hallowed a face? Is that jaw so delicately defined truly mine?

Is this not just a dream, a figment of my warped imagination? Is this image in the mirror truly a reflection of reality or is it simply a product of a twisted mind? I can't help but wonder these things as I stare in bewilderment into the reflective surface of the glass. I can't help but wonder if this is all just a dream; if I will suddenly awake to find that it was all false, that none of it existed.

I look into that accursed mirror, furrowing my brows as I watch the image do the same. Each move I make it mimics to perfection, from the widest sweep of my arm to the faintest twitch of my rose lips. I sigh softy and the image in the mirror does the same, slumping its shoulders in the same way I do. How can this be? How can this image, this beauty, be mine? It must be a dream; it must be my overactive imagination because there is no possible way that this mind could control such a body.

The mirror whispers such flattering lies to my susceptible mind and for a moment I believe it. For a moment, this is reality; these are my features. But then the doubt creeps into my mind, stealthily as a cat stalking its prey in ink dark. It's a stealthy creature, that doubt, and it contains no shape. It steals into my mind, making me raise a brow at the image in my mirror. And as I think doubt wraps cold arms around my brain.

"What if this does not belong to you
And all the things you thought were true
Turned out to just be someone else's lies?
Because baby this does not belong to you
This does not belong to you
This does not belong to you."

My lips form the words in a soft melody and the mirror mimics me. But doubt has infiltrated the deepest corners of my mind, replacing the conviction of reality. What if this does not belong to me? What if this is all just a game to someone else? What if I am living in a spun web of lies, ensnared in such bright silver strands of threaded falsehoods? What if I am living a lie?

And the thought sticks itself to my mind as I tear myself away from the image; tear myself away from the lines that say they define me. I tear myself away in the hopes of relief from the pouring water that runs in rivulets down my aching body. These scars are mine; these imperfections are mine, of this I am sure. What I see as I shiver here, the water beating a soft rhythm on my tender flesh, is what I can define as reality. The mirror speaks lies but perhaps my eyes do the same.

And I can't tell anymore, even as I stand here, the water intertwining, twisting over the curves of my body. I can't separate the truth from the lies anymore. The lines separating these has blurred so greatly that they now blend seamlessly into each other. I cannot tell which is which, if one speaks lies while the other whispers truth. I cannot tell anymore and they both tear at the strands of my consciousness, at my weak mind. They both vie for my attention, both of them demanding me to believe in them.

I realize as I stand there, the water running cold from the time I have spent still, that I am the one who has given them life. I gave doubt life, breathed into it a form, despite the fact that it is indistinguishable. I have given lies bodies, arms to curl around my mind. I have reduced reality to the same, stripped them of their strong frames and piercing intensity. I have been the one to morph them so that they became the same in my befuddled mind. This is of my doing.

I shut the water off, sighing once as I walk out into the cold currents of air swirling around the small room. Shivering, I glance into the mirror out of the corner of my eyes as I fish for something. After a few moments, I turn my gaze to that accursed mirror, catching my supposed reflection. Is this me? Is the human staring directly into my frightened eyes with the same expression really me? I still do not have the answer to my pressing question and so I simply stare at the image, trying to discern some vestiges of the truth.

But if I cannot distinguish the truth from the lies, how am I supposed to find that which I so long for? How can I find that which I seek if I am no longer aware of its form? Exhausted by the prospect of such difficult and disastrous a task, I turn and walk away, leaving the image in my mirror alone. I turn off the lights, casting the room into darkness, obscuring the glass that confused me so.

I wandered in a daze to another room, my sanctuary, my haven. The door clicked quietly shut behind my turned back, the sound echoing off the walls. I walked to the computer, tapping a key in order to remove the screen saver. My fingers worked on the mouse pad, searching for the play button on the right corner of the screen. With a small smile crossing my lips despite my darkened mind, I press the button. Almost immediately, a steady beat begins to tap out into my room, filling every corner with sound.

With a sigh, I sink down in my armchair, letting the music infiltrate my senses, letting myself fall into bliss. This is the one thing that does not confuse me; this is what empowers me, what makes me continue walking through each day. I hear guitar riffs, drum beats, the steady bass lines and the melodious vocals and I can't help but be comforted. This chaos, this cacophony of sound, is what lulls me to sleep at night. Each remote note, each heartfelt word, is what allows me to dance through my day. This is what allows me to ignore the image in the mirror; what allows me to forget about the complications it brings me with each passing day.

Perhaps I am beautiful, I muse as I sit there, my back slumped against the chair. Perhaps the image in the mirror is my reflection; perhaps it's not a dream. Doubt is losing its grip as I continue to listen to the lyrics. A smile-a genuine smile-graces my lips as I gaze at the screen, reading the name of the song over and over again though there are countless other things I should be doing at the present moment.

Perhaps these unique green eyes really are mine. After all, one cannot truly gaze upon and understand beauty without holding some part of it. I shrug to myself beneath the too-large white t-shirt I currently wear. I link my fingers together, placing them beneath my chin as doubt begins to slip slowly from my mind. It becomes desperate, attempting to access the most fragile portions of my brain in a futile attempt to continue destroying me. The smile on my lips continues to grow though I cannot imagine why. Doubt still targets my brain, trying to get me to believe the lies that had been instilled in me. Somehow, I can distinguish them now, can see just how fraudulent they have been all along. They had resided in me like a parasite, feeding on my thoughts without my ever noticing them.

I had made them and I could destroy them. I had breathed life into them, had released them in moments of sorrow that I would soon regret. I had been the one to mold them, to give them their color. I had been the one to break them down, to reduce them to assimilate the parasitic creatures living in my thoughts. Perhaps it was all part of a bigger plan of mine, one I failed to realize at the moment of formation.

Perhaps I had to make them distinguishable; perhaps I had to attempt against myself because otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to find saviors. Are these lips mine, these lips that mouth the musical poetry echoing throughout the confines of my room? Are these eyes mine, these eyes that shine as the next song begins playing, bringing a new melody, a new message? Are these delicate shell ears mine, these ears that eagerly drink in the sound reverberating through the air? Perhaps they are.

"Can't find my way home,
But it's through you and I know,
What I'd do just to get back in her arms,
Can't find my way home,
But it's through you and I know,
What I'd do just to get back, well, in her arms.

I can't find the way."

I pause my singing though I continue to listen to the words pouring out from the black mesh of my speakers. "Come on angel, don't you cry." As the song fades and the music dissipates, I smile again. I think I might have found my way home; I think I must have found the answers to my countless questions. Beauty can be spawned from tragedy, I think as I sit there, listening to the notes from the acoustic guitar playing in the song, fingering the frets to match the rhythm in my mind. I smile once more as my thoughts deviate to the five men responsible for the music battling the doubt in my mind.

I smile as I realize that they didn't just save me. As I had created the creatures tearing at my mind-as I had created the forms depicting truth-they had created me. They had been the ones to shape me, to refine what I already had. They were the ones to bring so many aspects of myself to light, to make me realize that I was the mad scientist, the creator of the creatures plaguing me. I was the only one that could destroy them.

Were it not for those five men, those five heroes, perhaps I could have been destroyed by my own demons. As it stands, I can finally see the beauty in the curves of my face and body, can finally distinguish the lies from reality. I can finally tear apart the demons eating me alive.