Wednesday, July 11, 2007

A question

A magnifying mirror showed the imperfections of her face, she stared at her reflection, all red and blotchy, without a thought in her head.
She grabbed the bottle of expensive foundation and started to dab some drops on her face, targeting those pimples she hated so much, the ones on which she blamed all her misfits, the ones that caused her unhappiness, the ones whose disappearance would fix all her problems. She thought of her fair skin, lying underneath those red regions, wishing it could see the world, the skin she was born with and on which she was complemented so much.
The drops were starting to slide off of her face, resembling beige tears of desperation, with a grimace she grabbed the square sponge that was lying beside her on the sofa. She started with her forehead going in a horizontal, almost theatrical motion, guiding the sponge over those lines which made her seem a thousand years old, she managed to make them disappear; satisfied with the outcome , she focused on her nose,making sure it was all covered, then her cheeks , her chin and above her eyes. Minutes later, she was even-toned, beautiful and one might even dare say "perfect".
She stared at her made-up reflection, at first she smiled, a smile of vanity, of ego, of a trivial feeling which insulted her, embarrassed her, making her blush. The latter was muffled by the layers of beige liquid on her face, which now has dried and accentuated her bone structure.
Suddenly, a question lingered in her head , a question that moved her, shook her from her vain trance, made her realize it was all a trick, all a hoax, unreal and will never become a substantial support of her wrecked life.
A tear fell from her eyes, carving a crooked way through the beige plains of perfection. She looked at the difference between the two surfaces, one very beautiful, complementing, but superficial, and the other is so imperfect, real and detailing the suffering she went through. Her face was her map, it guided the onlookers to the roads of her personal journey. It was her tale being told, not by words, but by a natural painting made by the Creator himself, depicting the most wonderful and most desperate moment of her life, with colors so real, and tones so true. Who was she to veil this great work of art?
Grabbing the same sponge, she dabbed it with rose water and started to wipe her face, revealing every bump, every line and every dry patch she had; making her face seem more and more real.
She set down the sponge after all the traces of foundation were wiped out of existence, she smiled at her reflection, a smile of accomplishment, a smile of understanding, one that was so natural and beautiful in its imperfection.

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