She sits alone in front of the mirror. Its' chipped wooden
frame allowing her to see herself as a picture. Keeping her body
still she moves her eyes over the breathing photograph before
her. It is not a portrait she particularily admires.

It isn't that her appearance is unbecoming. Quite the
opposite in fact. Like the flash on a camera, the naked bulb above
her casting depth to the contours of her face. Her lips tinted
with earthly tones, though barely parted - seem full of invitation.

Her nose is of Roman descent. The smallness of it so well-
proportioned to her features that one could assume it was paid for.
her ears, tiny and perfect, partially hidden under the fullness of
her hair. The wild darkness of the untamed mane brightened only by
subtle tones of auburn. The lashes reaching out and over as if to
valiantly offer shelter to her eyes. And her eyes, they are of
emerald discretion. This is what they tell her.

She asks herself who this woman is before her. Trying so
desperately to see herself as others do. She cannot find her, this
mysterious creature. Where in this picture is the love for life?
the passion for living? the beauty they speak of? Was it lost in
the dark-room? Somewhere between the dipping and the drying? What
exactly was she exposed to that could cause her to never fully
develop into this woman that she isn't?

She looks again, at the photograph. And she watches closely as a tear meets her eye and slides slowly down her cheek. If not for the tear this woman would remain unfamiliar. The memories
return and the pain that follows is only agonizing company. Though
her vision is blurred from the bitter liquid, she can see more
clearly. For before her very eyes the woman only she could know is
coming into focus. She tears herself away from this self-portrait,
leaving the frame to display the dead and cold reflection of the
wall on the other side of the room.

She walks confidently into the street with her head held high
to meet the sun. A smile flashing across her face. The people she
passes cannot help but stare at this wondrously happy woman as she
strolls by them. And she lets out a laugh.

She finds it easy to become this woman, realizing of course
that most people see only what they want to. Wishing she could
afford herself that luxury, a black chill went up her spine. For
maybe she does see only what she wants to.

Could it be that she chose to see the pain and the agony while searching for the other woman? Perhaps the breathing photograph was not a picture of a self-portrait, but instead, one of self-pity. She gently pushes the thought from her mind...until the time, when she once again, becomes her own photographer.










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