My Face in the Mirror

Sometimes, I look into a mirror, and I am suddenly reminded that I have a face; these are not conscious sought out moments marked to admire my facade (I wish I could take joy in that) but just off-hand moments that happen while doing something else, a mundane activity of daily living.

I have noticed, in such moments I tend to smile, shrug and shake my head. What am I shaking off? For some reason, these are melancholic moments.

I look into the mirror, the face that looks back at me is familiar. Not just because it is a reflection of ‘me’ in this current phase of life, but because this face also reminds me of someone, a ‘me’ of ten years ago who also looked into a mirror, who was slightly less melancholic maybe but more anxious (I have a wise sedateness now, often indistinguishable from an air of mild happy-sadness); that me perhaps also looked into the mirror and thought strange things, he thought of a me ten years further back in time perhaps, and just to let you know how old I am, that twice reflected me too could go back a further ten years, and find a still younger me, a child who was only beginning to dream.

What if that child could look forward? What would he see? I reckon, he would be more and more disappointed with every passing decadal me. That child hoped for so much more.

Alas, life doesn’t go like that, child. (But the dreams, the dreams. They are ghosts that haunt me.)

I look into the mirror and I see the pall of some kind of disappointment. Although I am more or less happy now in my daily being, when I look into the mirror I am instantly reminded of the great dreams the youngest me had, when he looked into the mirror. I have failed him.

But what can I do. The dreams of children are meant to fail. I smile, I shrug, I shake off the moment. This is how it must be.

Till I face the mirror again.

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