where the writers are
Portrait
Reflection. (C)  Camilo Vásquez 2010

The way she drew me after being together just one night is amazing. Normally, I can’t recognize my own face, there’s no clear image in my mind of my facial features, just an overall likeness and a vague idea of a gaze; a hieratic, sad, concentrated look, a face that mostly frowns.

She captured that face that I look in the mirror but rarely really see. I know the image she drew is more accurate than the mirror, has more reality than the reflection that gazes back at me, the empty stare of someone looking at himself.

She saw my smile; the one my face and my unconscious sol feel but I never get to see. Its beautiful, frustrating and strange to see so undeniably, that someone knows your face better than yourself.

Where is the courage, the heart, to see into one’s eyes? Do we dare to see ourselves, our beauty, our unending light? Or do we see our fears, our delusions, ant the image of the image of what we think the others see.

Is there anything more alien to us than ourselves? So many times we try not to see because there is nothing more frightening than the person that lives in our own body, that inescapable stranger. The abyss looks at you when you gaze into his depths; but does he dare to look into himself?

There’s so much fear and self loath and regret that their black flame blind us, but past that dark sun lies what we really are; that we don’t care to see because we are to afraid or busy,  contented or ashamed to even see our own face.

Every so often we are blessed and we can see others, they shine so bright there’ s impossible not to see; then, we love, and we see what they don’t see in themselves; beings so utterly fragile, beautiful, complex and rare that sometimes they can’t  be warmed by they own fire, so lost that stroke by the cold might even want to die, even when their sole existence is reason for others to want to live.

It’s hard to love what we cannot feel or see, and we too often feel our pain but not our being.

That is loneliness, to isolate yourself from yourself.

But sometimes someone can see you and help you see your own smile.

That happened almost three years ago. We talked and held and saw our eyes in the light of the fire and the silence of graves.

Now sometimes, sometimes, I can see myself.