Damelo

When I am at my most vulnerable, honesty escapes me when I least expect it, and I am rendered helpless by these stolen authenticities. It is essentially revealing something intimate to someone you don't know, like mentioning you were shopping for shampoo when describing the backdrop to a larger story. Doesn't everyone take a moment to wonder at the lather, rinse, drip of stranger's hair at moments like these? Also, I am often surprised with how flawed I find my own philosophies to be. It's as upsetting as seeing a employee who treated you poorly embracing a lover outside of their workplace. Their shared tenderness is jarring, and confuses my instinct to categorize them as a soulless other in my quest for compartmentalization.

I don't think it is narcissistic to study oneself closely. As Milan Kundera would put it, I have always tried to see myself through my body, and I want my truth to be a good one. The first thing I do when I come home from a particularly heavy experience is carefully examine my face, to see which traces have been left behind; if my own errors weigh heavily around my eyes, or if I have managed to thwart them until their next repeat. When I loved, I tried to understand what made my skin and eyes brighter. It felt like an outward expression of my inner wholesomeness; an appearance I rightfully feared would make an unceremonious exit. I am trying to withhold criticism of these blemishes and small imperfections, and rather see them for what they are; the open wounds of life. As they disappear in passing weeks, I project onto them my own marvelous perception of the human body and the ability to heal itself. If my skin can do it, then so certainly can my soul.