I could see in M’s face tonight the old woman she’ll one day be. I looked at her features and form. I watched her fingers as she opened her purse, slim and coiled, spiralling out like spider legs, the deftness of her movements that once seemed so elegant and poised now dark and menacing.
Has she aged in the past month? Am I seeing lines that aren’t really there? Or has a veil been lifted and the truth been revealed?
It might be hard for me to see someone so delicate and pretty so capable of doing me so much harm.
We saw the psychological show stopper Derren Brown. The tickets were bought when times were not so bad, and in the great tradition of dysfuncional behaviour we attended the performance together.
The show was the usual, though no less astounding, mesmerising fair from Mr Brown. A mix of misdirection, suggestion and psychology. Much of the seemingly magical relies on the audience’s belief in it’s own free will, a position proved pitiful by the great man’s reveals on how thoughts can be controlled.
How much of what we think, do we actually think, and how much is already thought for us?
Perhaps I’m simply spiteful. Perhaps she’s just as beautiful as she ever was, but I no longer want to see. Tonight she seemed frail, but less a butterfly, more a moth.
Has she always been ugly on the inside, or am I seeing what my mind deems right for me to see?
A few more weeks and she’ll be largely out of my life.
I doubt everything, and as you’re the cause I hope you won’t mind my distrust of you. But of course, you won’t, because what could my opinion of you matter to you now?
“The paradox of reality is that no image is as compelling as the one which exists only in the mind’s eye.”