I no longer delight in
the delusion of being right. The years pile
up, yielding wisdom—the kind that I feel deep in my belly. The kind that pries
the masks off of all of those faces.
When I was young, I
believed in absurd things: the things that deep-belly wisdom debunk. The
trick is to juggle the hostile aftertaste of deep-belly wisdom with the honeyed
piquancy of open-mouthed laughter without dropping all that is you.
I look at the lines staring
back at me in the mirror and I open my mouth and I force the laughter up like bile
until it becomes real. Then, my laughter transforms into a growl, a guttural grunt
that renders the lines staring back at me in the mirror savagely beautiful. Finally, I stop tripping over the heap of
years and faceless masks: I just live open mouthed.
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