perception of a portrait

in my house there is wall covered with papers, sketches, drawings, some paintings, and a couple of notes.

among all the colors and the faces, not one of them is my own.

flowers, trees, places, and faces but not one of them is me.

i think i’ve always been pretty good at observing what i see.

i have an eye that is keen to notice. to take in what is more typically unseen.

they say the more that you listen, the more you may learn.

i must have learned a lot because i would always observe.

what was happening, what was going on all around me.

but a vision of myself, my identity, is much harder to perceive.

a collection of comparisons. contrasting with others

using their words and expectations to define me.

a portrait of a person, who was not at all how i seem.

unrecognizable to only me.

So today I did something I haven’t done in quite a long while. Now, to be quite frank, this is not my first time, but it is still novel enough to seem new. Twice before I’ve tried, discounting stick figure attempts, to create some kind of self-portrait, an authentic representation of myself. Now in a world of front facing cameras, mirrors, and selfie sticks it doesn’t seem like it would be the most efficient, to create a portrait, a drawing done mark by mark, intentional and intricate. Each movement and each mark a recognition and an evaluation of self a personal description of identity. The funny thing is. Evidently, we see ourselves much different than we seem. Defining the reality of being by how we think we’ve been. How we should be. What others have said and what all these things mean to the creation of me. My portrait depicts a person, but that person isn’t me. She is everything I’ve been told of what I should or what I wish I could be. But I am going to keep practicing. I am going to work on observing me. To, with finesse, accurately depict and define my identity ignoring the shouts and expectations always surrounding. To rely on outside strength for the definition of my soul.

See in all my observations, all my listening, and everything I’ve seen I’ve lost my perception of the portrait and what it seems. I am practicing with each stroke, with each mark to more truly understand this newfound identity. an identity of not perfection, but still beautiful it seems to be loved and to be loved simply for me.

I am beginning to see my flawed senses and view my self accurately. Practicing the self portrait, as vain as it may seem, has become immeasurably more important to me.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.