The Man I Am

Written for my Creative Non-Fiction class, the first of three stories.

Somewhere between this person and that adventurer whose laughter and antics colored his days, whose shirts alternated by the shades of the rainbow, labeled with the names of the week, who when wearing white socks and denim jeans would proclaim through a smile that he's wearing “people clothes,” there must have been a schism or break from who I am and this man reflected across my sink whose features are eerily similar to the ones in my, not his, memories, whose eyes are but vestiges searching for what it was that made them so hollow.

I am not the man I used to be.

I am something entirely different.

SSSP-SHRRR-ISHHHsssshhhhhhhh I open my faucet and let it run. One hand turns it off, the other brushes through my hair. I cough and blow my nose.

“What time is it?” I check my phone, 4:32 P.M.

“...”

I brush my teeth.

Somewhere between here and home lies myself who’s lost pursuing a different direction, whose days are fraught and numbered by dreams, dormant dreams of being awake where life is progressed with dreamlike ease, but, instead, this mirror reflects recurrent reality, a reality with dreams of falling asleep anywhere I might imagine to be, to be sleep in hopes of myself awaking, awaking to my, not his, reality, where I could fall asleep and dream of fantasy and not his, but my, recurrent yearn for the man I used to be.

I am not the man I used to be,

I am a man entirely different.

SSSP-Shrrr-iiiiiISHHH- I shut it off. It's time for work. I must wear my uniform: black slacks, a similar shirt, a smile. This mirror doesn't let you forget that there are days to exist and that there are ones to live.

His smile. My time.

 

“Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the tallest, darkest, handsomest of all?”

“...”

“... dick.”

Today is not for living.

Somewhere between myself and this water stained yet vivid mirror, reflecting in detail every hair, scar, pore, nostril, all of his features, is an empty faucet with two opposing yet identical handles capable of mixing hot and cold, now and old, are my hidden feet which must be planted because here I stand evidenced by his reflection, by who I see staring back at me, evidenced by his familiar features despite absent daily colorful T-shirts, despite not saying what I've said before, despite that schism I am evidenced by his reflection.

I am not the man I used to be.

I am not - I used to be -

I used to be not the man I am.

But you are

in your bathroom, a dirty place. You can pressure the mirror and its once painted white, now, yellowing frame if you dare to pop it open and view its contents. But you don't have anything in there, so you never do. The only things that you leave here are your toothbrush and your Crest Whitening toothpaste. The door is closed, naturally. You are about to use the shower. You can hear your roommate, Jacob, walk down the hallway to the kitchen. However, I don't mean to say you can hear his feet stepping and lifting to and from the floor but more like the creaking beneath his weight. Every step taken announces his or your location; a natural sonar ominously, yet casually stating your steps heeeeeeere... here... hhhhheeeeeErRrRre from under the carpet which is old and feels old beneath your toes and is the sole reason why you always wear socks.

The shower and its bathtub are some things you try not to think about despite them being part of your daily and or nightly routine.

Remember that large spider relaxing amongst its web but unfortunately was likewise amongst and in the way of Jacob's and your routine? Despite the fact that he had at least a hundred pounds on you, he screamed for you to kill it. You weren't doing anything of note, so you obliged while he loudly watched from the doorway.

It was a place where you stood in the middle for fear that its perimeters might further discomfort you.

Not the man I am, I used to be.

I am the man; I used to not be.

I used to not be the man I am.

You are not

in your bathroom because you've closed your eyes, but you are in their restroom. It doesn't have a lock, but, thankfully, it does at least have a door; which opens or closes to the room in which you reside, depending on how you look at it. It's clean, smelling of disinfectants, but quite small; only containing a white porcelain toilet, a similar sink with chrome handles, but neglects to offer a mirror.

In their room, between their beds, atop their mobile desk, is your book, On the Shortness of Life, by the stoic Seneca; which your old roommate Matt brought for you at your request. You think, “I'm going to finish that while I'm here,” but there's a commotion outside their room's door; sounds indicative of two people wrestling and restraining some other, whose loud, angry, confused shrieks and curse words are stifled beneath their weight.

And then she's subdued.

Silence.

You've closed their restroom door.

Your eyes, still closed, imagine a mirror, and the sight of yourself only wearing green, but today isn't Thursday. You wore blue yesterday and very well might tomorrow, but neither was or would be Monday. Green is Thursday. Blue, Monday. You chuckle and remember yourself. At least I'll have a song stuck in my head.

I used to not be the man I am.

Not to be the man I am, I used.

I used to be not the man I am.

But I am

in my new bathroom which, beneath clean tones of jasmine soap, smells vaguely of saw dust, whose mirror gets christened with its first water stains as my hands use my hair as a towel. The low rumble of the dryer hums as intermittent quiet metallic scratches make their presence remembered. My hand turns a gold handle of my new marble sink while heavy sounds of ascending feet step up along my stairs denote that my new roommate is home.

I leave the bathroom to stand on my porch for want of a cigarette and non-reflective scenery.

It's a beautiful August dusk, typified by its pallet of, and spectrum between, yellow and red, but further away the colors fall asleep into darkness. Behind me the front door opens and closes as a couple heavy shoes greet the wooden porch. My new roommate has joined me.

“What's it like to be back in school?” he asks.

I take a deep drag and exhale,

“It's nice to be looking to the horizon instead of at my feet.”

But I say to myself,

I am not the man I used to be;

I am myself, entirely different.

Author's Note

Well, the formatting was all screwed up when I transferred it over here. So, I hope this doesn't looks like some malformed degenerative mess. Anywho, I wrote this for my nonfiction class and decided to mesh a prose, rhythmic poetry into a detached narrative. Any comments are quite welcome! Thanks!

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

It might be a better piece of work if was non-fiction, or fiction, or poetry , or prose, than if it was all of those. But, that observation is only relevant if the piece was intended for a reader. If it was intended for the writer or a teacher it is none of my business.

[Kibbles and Quips]

Yeah, this was very much written for my nonfiction class, and was me being experimental. I kinda agree with you, but, again, this was for class. And, if you read the 1st chapter of The Circus, I borrowed part of this piece and put an edited version of it in there.

Thanks for reading this and giving me your sincere and thoughtful opinion and input! I appreciate it! Even if I don't rework this piece in consideration with what you said, I have that perspective and input to consider when I write something else! Thanks for your thought! I'll put it on my shelf.