All of us are portraits. Some are being drawn, the canvas almost unblemished, some are complete, resplendent with their colours and some are almost finished, on the verge of getting tested by dust, air and water.
I am one too. I have never looked at mine, because it's impossible to. Most of us don't have a mirror. I suspect none of us do.
I hear descriptions of mine, by admirers and even detractors. Some are flattering, some are not. I love to hear them all. I envy them for knowing more about me than I do. I envy them for being on the other side.
I want to see mine- I know I can't. But the desire never goes away. I get plenty of time. I try to figure myself. Maybe I am like this, I imagine. Then I wait for the next observer. Gives me great pleasure when my diagnosis is proved correct. Well, not every time, especially when he points out things I don't want to hear.
Sometimes I worry the paint is coming off. The dust and the vapours are taking their toll. People touch me- they disturb the surface. Some who care enough redraw me. But only in parts.
The paint is drying.
It feels nice.
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