I am pierced tonight with a strange love of all things that are asymmetrical. The lovely displacement, the error of balance and the right of things being slightly just off, slightly askew, not quite jarring but enough of crookedness as to be interesting and alert attention. Is it not real beauty to hold a quirk of nature that is slightly flawed, a righteous indignation against a cool, perfect reflection of mediocrity, of a social pandering to stale, lusterless picture-perfect?
Mirrors are at their most beautiful when their silver begins to erode, when the silvering fades and reflects a diminished face, a distorted, vague understanding of the creeping of age … how no one escapes this panicked rush for more time. How ugly and sad we feel, how beautiful we remain in our mirror minds. How we sit and chuckle at the young girls who feel, as we did, that their beauty is irrefutable, unfailing, withstanding like simple miracles of never. How our grandmothers laugh at our preens and primps. A ruthless and cold table of time rushes us through our freshness and dumps us artlessly into an equally long stretch of envious watching.
Our little girl hearts never make terms with the evolutions of our mirrored faces. It is part of the wisdom of acceptance, but the stretch in between is a desert of dismay and reluctance, anger, even … that it can hurt like a broken bone to see, day by day, our mirror reflecting life. But, oh, the beauty of our cultivated hearts! Those who have worked a garden inside, those who have hung cloth over their mirrors and pursued ideas, they will withstand and bloom. For they are the ones who always understood the beauty of asymmetry alongside the perfection of a pure and endless circle … understanding, too, the miracle of our tiny, shimmering fractal faces growing exponentially in fun-house mirrors into the infinity of our imagined ancestor daughters.