Self Portrait

Whenever I look at the mirror— I see the portrait of a boy, (whose name) rooted from a pine country and whose heart made out of pure wanderlust, staring back at me.

I see a boy who came from not that very far away corner of the world: that “Mowgli” boy, but just this once, who is roaming at will in this constricted jungle channeling his mind from tranquil “wilderness” suiting up to feel and breathe the fumey midtown traffic.

Before the ever ticking clock strikes again, I see that same boy giving in to those shadows of a midnight madness and resurfacing reluctantly in light of the luminous lantern lit up in the horizon with no known prejudice.

Before the mighty red bridge from a distance about to be enveloped by the measly ocean fog, he who once was a boy slowly turns into a man spreading his imperceptible wings ready to soar up against the wind leveling the knightly eagle.

As the ticking clock strikes another hour, yet an hour more, the man hums those vague verses from another time and another song.

I can see him looking over his shoulders as if it was the final glance to the place where he may never return.

He cannot see what I see in him...

What I think I see in him is nothing less perpetual than a mirror image where an image-self shouts out its twisting foreign tongue echoing— “mise en abyme”.... “mise en abyme” .... “mise en abyme”.

May he see what I see in him penetrating through the many faces of winters and springs.

Through the many faces of summers and falls.

The many faces of his portraits.

The many...