Beginnings

"It was about four in the morning in the height of summer, and the birds were singing beautifully. I had been staring into the mirror for at least twenty minutes. The sunlight bled into the room behind me and the bathroom light cast its judgement. I think my staring might be the result of severe narcissism. I see myself and I think I’d probably fuck me. Probably. It’s only when you look closer that you see the ugly humanity of it all. You see things in yourself and you realise you’ve criticised other people for less, but somehow it’s okay because it’s you. My face was gruesome. So purple and tan and tired. I looked at that beard which had appeared from nowhere. I guess I just stopped shaving somewhere down the line. I looked at all the individual hairs, peeling away from the flesh, trying to escape; they weren’t even the same colour. That’s me all over, no consistency. Lower than that my neck, and all those bruises from the love I made several hours ago. I can’t stand to make love prettily, and I never have. Sex is ugly, and unclean, and not remotely pretty. I suppose that’s why I like it so much. My eyes looked so bored– a dark brown, but not all that intense. They always seemed so much richer when I was younger, and in my mind’s eye they are a deep chocolate. The reality is harsh, and different – they’re more like sandalwood. Even my eyes were pale. The hair, the roof of the soul, was what made me what I am. It was never perfect, and it was never what I wanted. That quiff, borrowed from a thousand movies and pop singers, flopped limply about in front of my forehead. I saw myself so clearly that morning – I saw the face of a man who didn’t know where he was, and didn’t care. I stared for so long that my face lost all meaning. It became a pale collection of forms, and grotesque features, geographical, but still organic. "