When your dreams become mundane and everyday, so you can barely tell what’s real and not… it’s tough. Or when your life seems like a dream, a boring dream that you can’t wake up from, it’s tough.
So now I’m a borderline face artist. I don’t draw faces, well sometimes I do. I sculpt them. Real ones. Or at least I help to.
And we upturn the corners of the lips, ever so slightly. You see it straight away, the ‘resting’ face looks happy, pleasant.
It’s not real.
And I wonder about all the comments I have, when my mind is perfectly content, from men, nearly always men. “Cheer up love, it might never happen.” I wonder about sculpting my own face.
Instinct says don’t touch it, don’t mess with it.
And I think of all the changes my face has seen over the years, inflated with steroids, deflating, being slightly lopsided, tired, red-eyed, happy, rosy-cheeked, sad.
And I think about what it means to be beautiful. Does it mean to have slightly upturned lips. Or to look close to tears. There is something beautiful about a woman that looks close to tears. Something dignified about holding them back.
How about a blotchy-faced, tear-strewn, nose-running full-blown crying mess, the woman who can barely breathe.
Our faces tell a story, with a seemingly infinite number of expressions.
But it’s that resting one. The one that when I look in the mirror, looks sad.
The one that is sad I suppose.