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Conscious extends out a hand
"Are you alright?" it gently asks subconscious
.
A garbled mutter is heard, and conscious looks on concerned

"I know we haven't seen eye to eye as of recent" he stammers forth, "but you know I'm always here.  I just want to understand. We're a team"
He reaches over and pats subconscious on the back

Subconscious picks his head up and turns to look 
His tear stained cheeks are like pillars holding up sad eyes and the strain lines of angered expression 
Though despite the poor traits, underneath, and perhaps slowly climbing up into the rest of his face is a rosy color and hint of joy. The slight upward curve around his mouth suggest happiness may be beginning to poke through a long worn mask
A mask whos front perhaps seemed to the outside once as it now looks inwardly, except it was fraudulent, and a true mask in the sense to cover what lay underneath
But now, the first mask gone, and the second beginning to peel away the portrait of our narrator, shaped through his struggles as hes grown as an artist, his face a canvas to experience, begins to shine
Do I, conscious, have a face? It suddenly wonders as it looks on.
Or perhaps it, or I, am just the unidentified painter on the long term art of our friend, and other half.
As his final masterpiece comes along, the two halves of the narrator come together in companionship to shape the painting of his true face. The one he makes and plans to put up on display that might someday glow with the  warmth and beauty an artist develops through a long aged career

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