A Post-Modern Protest
Samuel beheld his face upon the mirror, a face staring back at him unforgivingly, and Samuel maintained his gaze, somewhat unwillingly - in a mirror, seeing eyes - seeing eyes. His thick brows sat lazily above his self-conscious hazel eyes. His expression remained empty, thoughtlessly honest; his lips remained shut; Eyes staring out of a mirror; there is turbulence, there, a dangerous tremor. The sight of self-image; his self-doubt; his egotism all stand sprayed across silver-backed glass - image, doubt, ego - they all conspired, they all incited; they all distracted, disturbed, distorted the meaningless mess of colour, shape, light and shade, those brows, those eyes, lips; his long, brown hair tied back tight (freshly combed) - it ought to mean nothing, or be mere amusement in the face of nothing, but today it was depressingly more - it was depressingly significant - it was important how he looked, it was important that his face was not too out of place amid his illusory personality - why, that today it was important that the illusions cohered? The face frowned, the eyes darkened - Samuel began to fall.
Every morning, the same struggle.