I like affirmation, or rather confirmation. A cavalcade of admirers satiates my ego. But being bypassed plunges me into depths of despair. Sometimes i lament my lack of self belief, the inviolable kernel of being that i can rejoice in. Yet when my evening gown, sequinned and studded with refracting mirrors ripples and susurrates i feel self contained, in possession of my incontrovertible beauty. But admiration from onlookers and obsequious courtiers dissatisfies me. I need something special, something private, some self communion with my integument to ratify the blueprint of myself i hold in my psyche.
The mirror performs one such function. I externalize the mirror, making it other. I draw from it validation of my singular beauty. I extroject myself and introject the significations the mirror reflects back to me. Most times though, through a suspension of self awareness, i ignore my own centrality in my becoming, preferring to see the mirror itself as an entity in itself, affirming me to myself. I disallow fusillades of self consciousness to assail me. The rims of the mirror gleam iridescently in the moonlight and it is then that my own luminosity is unwaveringly revealed to me. Because the mirror is my unconscious i do allow self doubt to sometimes creep in, rendering me inadequate but on most days i feel complacent and in sole possession of my inescapable beautifulness.
I love her. She is young but the pearly whiteness of her skin, the unsullied gleam of her molars, her young budding breasts entice and beckon. I see her as an embodiment of my own youth. She is a pool in whose depths i gaze, seeing what i believe i want to see. She merges seamlessly with me. I see her as a part of me, soldered and cleaved irrevocably. In some ways she is my mirror because she reflects, to me, the possibilities of my own apotheosis. As long as i remain the base in my own superstructure i concede to her her own individuality which is, in fact, an extension and distillation of my own incandescence.
Though these days, rather desultorily the lack, roiling immanently in me, rears its head. My singleness of ubiquitous beauty is no longer pleasurable. I see her growing more voluptuous and delectable dayby day. Men have started noticing her. The knowing of my own construction, upon my perception of me, is dawning. I am realizing that i am a narcissist and the prospect of it is unwelcome, suppurating my ageing bones and wrinkling skin with self loathing. I am helpless before this onslaught of self hatred that is crippling me, killing me within. She, once a symbol of my youthfulness is now a glaring reminder of my withering and desiccation. I must do something about it.