06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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"Perception Is a Two Way Mirror"
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The mirror was never my friend. It was always too cold, too harshly honest with me. It hung there, though, always, where ever I turned: a blunt reminder of who I was, inside and out; it reflected to me the things I was, and those things which I never wanted to be. And that scared me. My friend believed that the eyes were a porthole to the soul. In my sessions in front of the mirror, contorting my face, makeup, even closing my eyes never changed anything because I always felt the same thing: nothing. Emptiness. I knew my friend was wrong. I had no soul. Just a barren plane of being. And I hated that. And I hated myself because I knew it wasn't what I wanted to be. Even moreso, I never knew how to be anything else.
The American Dream. Security. Stability. Material possessions. Supposed happiness in a big box with colourful wrapping paper, tied with a red bow left right on the doorstep. But why did it seem so few people actually opened the box and took a look inside? The bow's tied tight, underneath laid a hard knot. The paper's leathery, thick, touch to penetrate. Some people said it was too beautiful for words. Some people said it was horrid. There was a monster inside, lurking, waiting for the one foolish enough to take a peek: a new pandora's box. But most people have a decent amount of ambition when it comes to an issue so pertinent to their lives. But I felt like I knew all along. Inside the box, it was empty. Dark and empty. So why did the package remain sitting there, cherished or hated, but still unopened? Maybe we're all afraid of what's inside, or even moreso, afraid of what's not inside. But I felt like I knew all along. Inside the box, it was empty.
No one ever asserted to me that empty space can be painful; that it can stab. But it can. Like a knife just sharpened along the whetstone. In a way, it's even worse because there's no object to blame. Nothing to point at as proof of the cause of pain. Worst of all, no cut, no blood, no ocular evidence to prove this pain exists. So there's no physical remedy. Yet we still bleed.
And now I have the gift of some perspective. I can look back and analyze these situations, extract meaning if it exists and my own capacity of perception and intelligence allows me to find it and understand it. I'm not afraid of being scared anymore. I'm not afraid to look in the mirror even if I hate what I see, and even though a part of me will always be that little girl with angry tears and a hole in her heart. All I wonder now is why I look so pretty when I love you and so ugly when I miss you.
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