An Ordinary Mystery

She sits in front of a dim blue ocean with a very greyish hue, not contrasting much with the overcast sky it meets on the horizon line.

Her eyes are the same color as the placid ocean, deeply mysterious. She looks slightly down and away with a blank stare as if avoiding eye contact.

She is young but not youthful. Her eyes, her face, suggests she has seen more than her living years should. It has aged her soul and you can see it in her face.

Deep set eyes and thick brows that cast a shadow on the high bones of her cheeks. All jagged edges, there is nothing smooth about her except the natural smoothness of her creamy skin.

Her face, it looks like it is made of putty. Like play dough that can be molded and shaped. It looks like someone put their hands on either side of her face and squeezed just hard enough to smash it in ever so slightly. She doesn’t look phased by it or pained by it, like it has become a part of who she is.

She does look fairly ordinary and yet, there is a mystery about her. But maybe that is the point. Her eyes, her face, what’s missing form my view. Maybe we never really see the entirety of another human being. We are all as ordinary and as mysterious as the ocean itself.

We catch glimpses of one another and if we see it often enough it becomes familiar and we think we know them. We think we know ourselves.

I have seen her often and have heard portions of her narrative. But mostly I make assumptions about her character and draw conclusions about the plot. It is much like a choose-your-own-ending novel, except that she is a person, not a book and I am not in control of how her story ends.

Stand before a mirror and describe what you see. Does it tell the whole story? Do you tell the whole story?

Do not be afraid to be more than a mirrored image. In your vulnerability others find courage to strip down and do the same.