I have never liked the way I look, and yet paradoxically find that I check my appearance a lot.
This unusual state of affairs never really occurred to me until bedtime the other night, when I was cleaning my teeth and caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Everything's okay, I confirmed to myself, because I'm still there.
Sometimes I am struck by amazement that I can command a finger to move, and indeed it waves obediently in front of me. Why should this be - eppur si muove! I'm still there, I realised, and made a face. Of course, the reversed face in the mirror responded, and I went to bed with a heightened sense of self.
What is 'a heightened sense of self?' It is no less than the temporary resolution of the puzzle whereby someone unsure of his physical appearance constantly reminds himself of it by looking into the mirror. It is a respite from the battle of significance against nothingness with both factions agreeing to call a truce for a while.
I hold that human life - or any life at all, for that matter - is of no consequence whatsoever. Yet I mourn the loss of my grandmother, dote over a particular cat, and I miss Bluefish. Again, the battle of significance as against nothingness manifests itself.
In the same way that I am trying to accept the course of events (whatever they are - as a general statement) without resorting to excessive sadness or gratitude, it is possible to accept that the battle of significance against nothingness has two simultaneous, opposite answers, and not be too astonished by this realisation.
The first answer lies in my own irrelevance. I look in the mirror because I've progressively reduced myself to nothing with a barrage of negative thoughts, and I'm keen to see if something - anything - remains behind after the onslaught. What remains, of course, inevitably displeases. And yet, completely negating the first premise, I am living proof of the miracle of existence, with my wiggling fingers and Latin outbursts.
Similarly, I can say that human life is insignificant - a joke, even - and still concede that Bluefish is missed. In this case, I can happily hold two contradictory ideas simultaneously in my mind, and, having become aware of my own hypocrisy, now I must learn to not be frightened of, ashamed of, or overawed by them.
I wave to myself in the mirror, and it feels like nothing short of a miracle. Here I am, with Kundera's air-nozzle for a nose, and a face which is nothing more than a register of the emotions, and I am both nothing and everything. The cat, apropos of his nothingness, matters more because of his meaningless, temporary beauty. Suddenly, when everything begins to makes sense, nothing at all has any logical order or consistency, and it is this truth which we must all internalise.
