Eskype

Looking at myself, I hate it. The face all white and saggy; the smile crooked with the years of frowning over half-baked situations. It's not who I am. Complete stranger whom I seldom visit. Not the same reflection the mirror partakes, it's the one in the Skype screen, the one that takes no prisoners. The skype doesn't lie, but I wish it would or have the ability to add some filters to diffuse the horror of it all. A little bit of dusk around the edges, erasers for the folds and droop of eyelid. And when I gaze at this vision I wonder of the first impression it gives. Does it make people want to pass? Not get to know who I am beneath the melting image the years created; gravity not anyone's friend. I know as I see it I'm reminded of my mother who had this permanent scowl as if everyone on the planet was out to disappoint. Not a standard I want to envision or offer. Yet perhaps if my look is offensive it will accompany my need for alone. The solitary I'm comfortable with. Who I really am. Lover of greatness; dissuade of warped vision. Beauty in the eye of the beholder, fragile lines un-admired by me.