A universe where we know
It’s so weird how people perceive themselves,
and then how they perceive others.
I can look at someone
and see beauty so effortlessly
see something in them
I would give anything to see in myself.
And then I look in the mirror
and suddenly I become an expert
at finding everything wrong.
It’s strange.
I can admire a stranger without hesitation,
but when it comes to myself,
I need a thousand reasons
to believe I am worth admiring.
And somehow,
I only believe myself.
A billion people could tell someone they’re beautiful,
and one person could call them ugly,
and somehow the insult survives
long after the compliments disappear.
One sentence
can outweigh a thousand kind ones.
One voice
can become louder
than an entire room.
Maybe that’s because
we treat opinions like facts
once we’ve heard them enough.
Most things in life are just opinions
that were made centuries ago,
repeated so many times
that we forgot they were opinions.
Someone decided what was beautiful.
Someone decided what was ugly.
Someone decided what was worthy,
what was strange,
what was enough.
And eventually,
we stopped asking who decided.
We just believed them.
Maybe if everyone realized that,
so many more people would be happy.
Maybe we’d stop looking at ourselves
through rules written by people
who have been dead for centuries.
Maybe we’d stop measuring our worth
against standards
we never agreed to.
Maybe we’d finally understand
that we weren’t born
knowing what beautiful meant.
We were taught.
And if something can be taught,
maybe it can be unlearned.
I wish it were that easy.
Because knowing something is an opinion
doesn’t always stop it
from feeling like a fact.
At the beginning of the year,
I covered every mirror in my house.
I was so disgusted with myself
that I didn’t even want
to be reminded of my own face.
But hiding the mirror
didn’t make me disappear.
It only made me realize
how much of my life
I had spent looking at myself
through eyes that hated me.
Maybe that’s the cruelest part:
I can look at a stranger
and see a person.
I can look at someone else
and forgive every imperfection,
call them beautiful,
tell them they don’t need to change.
But when it’s me,
I suddenly become the judge.
Comparison really is the thief of joy.
I can’t go anywhere
without wondering what people think of me,
without comparing myself
to strangers who don’t even know my name.
And the stupidest part is
they’re probably doing the same thing.
Maybe the girl I envy
is looking at me
and wishing she had something I have.
Maybe the person I think is perfect
has never once looked at themselves
the way I look at them.
Maybe somewhere,
in some universe
where humanity learned to question
everything a little sooner,
there are people
who look in mirrors
without searching for flaws.
People who hear an insult
and let it fall to the ground.
People who hear a compliment
and simply believe it.
People who never learned
to hate themselves
for breaking rules
that were never real.
Maybe in that universe,
beauty isn’t a cage.
Maybe it’s just a word.
And maybe the strangest thing
is that we’re already living
in a world where none of these opinions
are laws
yet somehow,
we still let them govern us.
Maybe someday
we’ll stop asking the mirror
if we’re beautiful.
Maybe we’ll just look.
And maybe that will be enough.
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