Reflecting

a basic principle of a woman in love is she gives herself to one man she deems worthy. this same man is also who she deems worthy of her ire and contempt. because she trusts him to remain steadfast receiving her harshest criticisms, hurled with little remorse. because she knows, at the end of the day, she's given him her everything. and for that, he would be grateful. even bearing all her hate. because, really, what else has he got? ---  I haven't seen myself in more than a week. apart from a few quickly glances, I haven't spent more than in a second in front of a mirror. so when I finally got the nerve to study myself last night, I was shocked at my worn and grey reflection. everything about me looked exhausted. my eyebrows need trimming. the bags beneath my eyes need healing. the pores of my skin need dilating. my eyes need brightening. my hair needs trimming. this is what writing does. the search for the perfect word, the building of a perfect sentence, the magic that comes from untwisting complex thoughts into profound agreeable prose. never did I dream of this place. my dreams were awash in unstructured color. bold untamed brush strokes. a canvas without sides. where the rules of grammar had no place. but here I am. stuck in this landscape of wordplay, where chat dreams up tens of variants of the same sentence faster than I can hit refresh. the rules of grammar and the laws of logic are the colors of my palate. the boredom is overwhelming. where to? I don't know.