See Me Clearly, See Me Clean

A tingle runs up my spine, and I fight a small shiver. As the sun approaches his rocky retreat, a stony silhouette bathed in amber light, the chill of the concrete beneath me increases. Usually oozing with people, the fairgrounds are now almost empty, and my refuge beneath a blackened canopy is particularly lonely. But that is exactly as it should be.

Sitting in the middle, crosslegged on the dusty concrete, I am surrounded only by myself. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of contemplative people are staring at me from all directions, but I gave up counting them all hours ago. I would think, amidst the faces I know only too well, I would feel most accepted, most at home. But an eeriness overcomes the hall, and the silent, contorted figures serve only to make me feel more a stranger than ever. A girl to my left is folded over like an ape, and another to my right boasts a neck comprable to a giraffe. These images, while in most circumstances amusing, now impress me only with the true senarios they unintentionally illustrate.

In the eyes of those who know me, aspects of my person are highlighted and others supressed, even hidden. Different people see different nuances, and the sensible, normal image I believe I am projecting often returns to me as a freakish monster. Even I cannot often see myself for what I am, blinded as I am by the mirrors in my mind and heart. And, continuing to gaze through the twisted twins that surround me, I search for a way to correct their frightful faces. Can I purposefully act in a manner to try and bend back these panes to an upright posture? Is there any way that I, a mere visitor to this glistening hall, can hush the murmers of light splashed from panel to panel? No. If I bend them, they will shatter, and a harsh rain of glass shards will shower me with unrelenting questions. My intentions, in their eyes, will be more mangled and curious than before. I cannot correct the scupltures of myself cast in the past, not through the petty knowledge and strength I, as only a ticket holder, possess. Drops of salty water splash in the dust on the ground beneath me.

I stand, and a rain-scented air beckons me outside of my dark, reflective chamber. At the doorway I am greeted by Him, the one I ached to find amidst the confusion within. Pulling me aside, on a soft, grassy knoll away from the society-cast pavement, He again sits me down and captures my still-hungry attention. From His side, where, curiously, I saw no pocket, he brings forward another shimmering sheet, another window into myself. At first, afraid to be yet again terrified of my face, I close my eyes, escaping into the cold comfort of ignorance. But a soft word from His thirsty lips bids me open them again, and I am greeted by a crystal image of the girl I thought no one could truly know. A dull pain still grips me, as I see that many of the dusty marks I had hoped were only contortions remain. But, as I gaze into the mirror, He pulls out a scarlet handkerchief and wipes away the tear-stained marks on my face.

"There," He says, as bloody tears run down His own face, "It is finished."