I look at the mirror. It is a lie. It's not I who's looking back at me. There's something missing. There's something that's not right. It's nothing to do with my face. The same two eyes, the same nose, the same lips, everything else is in place too. But it's just not me.
Look, look! I don't see how extraordinary I am. I cannot see how different I am from others around me. I respect women and their decisions; yet the mirror shows me as a man who seemingly is no different from other men who objectify women. I act true to my beliefs, yet the mirror shows me as no different from those whose morals are as transient as a chameleon's colours. I work honestly for a living, yet the mirror only shows that I am not an engineer. I would never beat my wife and constantly suspect, belittle and dominate her, but the mirror only shows a strong arm and frown on my face, just like on any other man. I have infinite compassion in my heart, but the mirror understands not what is meant by that. I want love, attention and affection no less than the next person, but the mirror cannot decipher so complex a code.
The greatest irony is in the truth. The mirror only shows my face, hands, trunk and legs as they are. But then, why do I interpret the mirror differently?
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