I think I just saw a face
I have never seen my face. Not really.
Nobody has seen their own face.
Sometimes you look into a mirror, but then you knew you were looking into a mirror. So, you make your mirror face to face the mirror, and all you ever get to see from a mirror is what you look like when you are looking into a mirror.
Sometimes you get someone else to take a photograph. But that would be the view of the other person, plus the view of the camera, plus your camera face.
My face is a stranger. A stranger that I have caressed on every surface regardless. If what we have is inside the skin; once it reaches the surface it belongs to other people. My face, so it seems, belongs to other people.
People who would see. People who project. People who would interpret meanings onto a filled canvas, until it is a battle field.
Fraught with meaning, wild brushstrokes like a forest fire.
The most I can do is to feel the inside of that mask that is my face, the inside of this paper box that is my body; and wear it as it is: an armor, a costume, a body-suit.
When the knight died a glorious death, they looked inside the armor and found nothing inside. It was a suit of armor, and nothing more. It held itself together and walked through life, a body with no place for a heart.