Nowhere To Be Seen
I got ready today. I didn’t go anywhere.
Yunior Rivas
There’s no real reason for this. No one is watching, no one is waiting.
Your hands move with care, smoothing hair into place, buttoning fabric over skin, coaxing small details into order. Something about it feels necessary, though you can’t say why.
It could be intentional, the subtle weight of potential, of the day’s possibilities. It could be automatic, the remnants of habit formed long ago, when being seen felt like proof of existence.
As you keep preparing, a voice speaks faintly, why do I bother? No one will see the quiet care you take, the effort it costs you to meet your own reflection, to draw yourself into being
You do it anyway, because what else is there to do?
It’s futile and essential, each brushstroke, each button fastened, each refusal to vanish into the blur of the unnoticed, a rebellion against stagnation.
You finish without fanfare, without audience, without reward. The silence holds steady, unmoved by your effort.
You still did it, and maybe that’s the real reason for this.