My face

There's a mirror on the wall, behind my computer's screen. It was lieing around the house, and since i spend so much time at my desk, i just placed it there a few weeks ago.

Thus, when i work, i sense the pale, worn moon that is my face hovering on the background of my vision, as if an embodiment of my conscience. Sometimes i look at it, and see myself as i am now.

The hair is lost in the darkness, but i can tell it's long and uncombed because of a few glimmers of screen light beyond the ears. That same light, coming from below, catches on the skin and draws lines. I see myself at 10, 50, 75. From the sides of the mouth, where the week-old moustache ends, twin lines start and graze the nostrils. They continue up, defining the nose, till they reach the place where the eyes begin. Two more lines are born there. They are splayed out wider than the others, each pointing to the center of the cheeks, but never reaching them.

I try to read a meaning on my face but, as is often the case with faces, i can't penetrate it. It looks at me with curiosity, calculatingly, even. With distrust that tries to pass as nonchalance.

I realize it doesn't know me.