Vanity

By Kriti Arora

The sick pleasure I get when I play music too loud and can hear the world slowly unravel around me is like none other. You disgusting creature in the mirror, you make me sick. But I love you. And I hate you. I am obsessed with you, O mirror self of mine. I think that you’re the prettiest and the ugliest person alive, all at once. You are sad and angry, yet joyous and frivolous like a child. 

I can’t draw the line between self-awareness and narcissism. Perhaps that line is too thin for my clumsy fingers. Perhaps that line is fictional, just like this multiverse is. Does this count as dissonance? I suppose it does. I do not yet know exactly which parts of myself I’m trying to distance myself from, though. Maybe I will in the future, maybe I won’t. Either is alright. 

Are we even alive? Not truly, not. Perhaps our lives are too short to count for anything. Isn’t this why the gods are enamoured with us? They have all the luxuries in the world, but without the fragile mortality that we have, there’s no passion. No drama. The stakes are low. Let me rephrase. The gods aren’t just enamoured, they’re jealous of us. Mortality makes romance and adventure sweeter. They envy us, because being mortal is perhaps the most beautiful thing one could be. There is beauty in death, love and lust become even more enjoyable once there’s a clock ticking over your head. 

Look in the mirror, see all the ribbons you used to tie yourself to me. They’re unravelling. 

Sit down, have a cup of coffee. Make some chit-chatter. Tell me everything and nothing. Dance around the fire, laugh a little, live a little. Not too much, not too little. Just the right amount. Your laughter’s like glass shards, my love. Breathe me in, don’t exhale. Let me intoxicate your senses. Leaving so soon? Oh, I beg you, stay. Stay for an hour, a week, a century. Stay forever. But maybe forever won’t be enough. 

By Kriti Arora