Every morning, a stranger. Every night, an old friend.
The morning face has that particular unguardedness — the puffiness under the eyes, the expression of someone who hasn’t assembled themselves yet. I don’t recognise it as mine. It seems to belong to someone who is between versions.
The night face I know. Lived-in. Particular. Whatever the day required has been worn in, and what remains is the actual shape of the thing.
I have stopped trying to decide which one is real. Maybe the stranger is the true self and the old friend is performance. Maybe it’s the other way. Maybe identity is just the commute between them — a daily crossing that you stop noticing because you make it so often.
I brush my teeth, looking just past my own eyes.
In the morning, someone I don’t recognise will look back and I will think: yes. That again. And I will start building myself for the day, which is the closest thing to magic I do on a regular basis.