aging

 

I saw for the first time a second of my kind. A second person who can bring with them what I bring to the table in my own group of friends. I saw again for the first time a person just like me in every aspect but one. They were perfect for me. They were me, myself, and I. Except for the eyes, those blank meaningless eyes.
I saw there was a first time for anything. That anything can happen. That everything imaginable can happen truthfully and honestly before our own eyes. I saw a portrayal of the truth in myself, as I saw the perfect me for the first time that wasn’t the actual me. I saw in those meaningless hazel eyes what others saw in me. I am not perfect. I have no emotion in anything. I am no more real than the next. In my eyes you could see only hatred, a desolate feeling that does not belong anywhere. In anything. Or wherever it resides. You could see in my eyes, drawn on me like any emotion that I was not perfect and I knew it.
But when I looked at this copy of me, and realized exactly what others saw in me, I felt my own imperfection was my perfection and I rejoiced with a renewed vigor. I sang and I danced, with my reality as unseemly as the paper I rested on. I was a photograph looked upon by the one I was taken of. I was a black and white taken of a man thirty years ago. I was the perfect side of him.