Mocking Smile

Weird faces, weird sounds, strange conversations, I look good in this light, I look bad with my face down, can I make myself cry? Nope. I start to laugh instead. This is my face.

This is my face? How could this be me? People look at me and they see this? What’s so special about this face? Nothing really, I’m sure it would blend skillfully into the crowd. That’s good to know, now I can stop worrying about people judging me and putting me down, how could they if they can’t even single me out. This is not a child’s face. I do not appear younger than everyone my own age…

Good. Now that I know my body doesn’t give off the wrong image, it gives off no image; I know that people don’t know what my soul is like. Good good, that means they aren’t wrong about me yet. Good. Now all I need is for my body to give off the image of my soul.

Soul is disembodied. Soul doesn’t figure to the body at all. Identity does. Identity is the image the body gives off. My body will never be as my soul and vice versa, but at least I can be happy in it. If my body becomes what my soul dreams of in this « tangible’ world, wouldn’t that make me happy in recapitulation? How do I make that happen? Be myself?

So I found that looking in a mirror and talking to yourself can be hours of fun. I honestly feel for the past few days that I am talking to someone else. It feels good to see yourself as someone else. It’s easy to interact with others when you don’t realize you’re there. You don’t worry about the image your body is making your soul look like. But when you do, you start to justify in circles and move in circles instead of forward. So? Why not talk to yourself without realizing you’re there? Magnificent process that works wonders. I will know what my soul says when I’m not thinking about it and will be able to know myself? I’ve been a happy dreamer for the past week. I want a mirror in my room now.

1. Jean Carriès (1855-1894)
Grotesque mask, element for the Monumental Door, 1891/1894
Photo : Philippe Ladet/Petit Palais/R. Viollet

3. Angsty poetry?

Angsty poetry indeed, what with my over thinking and pointless self-defeat... though I try to stay away from the cliché angst. I live with something I like to call petty issues. They are problems that get me so worked up even though in the general sense of life I don't care a thing for them. I try to stay away from these issues when writing angsty poetry... though maybe it would help to put them on paper?

* Here's a quite repugnant excerpt (I should probably not be posting):

"Something tells me I don't import

While I long for all to see me.

I get attatched to bodies;

A suicidal jumper on the edge of a cliff..."

I'll leave it at that while I go out and take a waft of fresh air to clear the shadows. Boo!

* Here's a not too shabby excerpt:

"Through torture you can get whatever you want

But remember it's my passion you're taking it out on.

We've yet to find a day where my projects aren't at stake

And your power to collaborate, not a dead end fate."