The Fool in Me Loves The Fool in You

a mirror, an apocalypse, and a devotion

The Girl in the Mirror

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I’ve looked in the mirror ten thousand times in my life, watching myself, watching her, watching me, watching her, and so forth. The moments always felt rushed, every interaction with the glass fleeting. Perhaps I was afraid that lingering too long would reveal something I wasn’t prepared to face.

Each morning, I visit the bathroom mirror. I fix my hair, line the lips, apply my lip gloss, and squeeze the pores on my nose, sometimes using the back of a library card or the thin handle of my tongue cleaner. I lick my teeth, clean my ears with an ear swab—though I’m quite sure we’re not supposed to use those anymore—and analyze my eyebrows. I raise them, pout, and suck in my cheeks.

Within the past few years, I've noticed that I often viewed myself through a lens that seems foreign to my own, one that clearly does not belong to me. It was as if I had no control over my perception of Self. This slow, unconscious habit has tormented me for nearly two decades, and I've just started coming to terms with it. When was the last time I truly looked myself in the eyes? What does She think? What does She know? What does She love? Why does She love?

For years, I saw myself through the eyes of others, in search of approval - perhaps in pursuit of something holier than validation. Now, I've shifted my focus, turning away from those ephemeral glances in mirrors. I've started meditating, compelling myself to maintain a deliberate gaze into my own eyes in the mirror. The first few minutes are veiled in superficial awareness, but then, a sense of power, an unassuming freedom, subtly beckons.

The more I look into my new eyes, the more I start to imagine a different world. 

The Beginning of the End

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This world is designed for those who, from their earliest childhood, prioritized living for Others above all else. 

Here, everyone and everything I love is gone and I am alone. I walk through the city with nothing but a shadow to remind me that the sun is still here and it is here to stay. That provides a temporary solace. I come home to myself and I realize I miss the comfort of listening to my friends’ voices over the phone, the 30-min catch-up sessions with my mother, the words of encouragement from my boyfriend, or the chatty meows from my cat, Rumi. With them, there is always enough love to give and receive. 

And then I wonder if there is so much abundance in love, invisible or physical, what form of love do I hold for myself? What radical form of love do I keep just for myself? 

Only when I’m on my knees at the face of modest isolation do I realize how colloquial the phrase “self-love” feels in the real world. 

Diluting the medium of “self-love” as a means to accept one’s repressed guilty pleasures or rationalizing the term to garner false connections and feed an Ego is as tactless as it is marketable. It is easy to sell the essence of “self-love” through weekly treats at bakeries and cafes, happy hours and dinners, gummies and cocktails, and at sample sales and spring collections. 

But in this world, in the beginning of the end, there is nothing. I walk through empty malls and bakeries and the tantalizing need for a quick reward subsides. How do I love myself when there is no one watching me? Or when there is nothing to tangibly embrace, taste, listen to, or see? 

I created this world to understand whether everyone and everything I know has to end in order for me to peel back the chambers inside of my heart, and see if there is room for me. If inside, something beats for someone like me. The answer I found is a work in progress. 

Learning to love myself is an act of quiet devotion. 

What forms does this devotion take, and how does it manifest? It feels like remembering a dream beautiful enough to write it down in the middle of the night only to reimagine it in the morning. It is in the act of talking in my mother-tongue with my mother. It tastes like the tears on my lips after watching a movie that reminds me time and time again why I love telling stories. It is in the act of cooking a meal without a single drop of noise in the apartment. It looks like writing cursive in my journals, admiring the stems and height of each letter. It tastes like the ash from the joint at the tip of my tongue. It looks like applying makeup on my kitchen counter, and then taking it off.

It looks like writing this essay. 

Though there is beauty in isolation, I want to find ways to hold the truest form of my Self despite the noise, despite the distractions, despite the emotional and physical responsibilities, despite the moral obligations to community or family, despite - 

Was isolation ever meant for beings like us to make a home in? No, it is simply a pathway to a reminder that even in absence, there is presence. Even in silence, a heart still beats in complete subservience to one human in this body. 

Enter The Fool

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Beyond mirror meditations, I seek connections with symbols that anchor me back into my body. Occasionally, on Sunday evenings, I find solace in reading Tarot cards. Among them, The Fool often calls out to me.

The Fool, numbered 0 in the Tarot, symbolizes the spirit of freedom. Paradoxical in name, The Fool embodies living in the present and making choices that align with one's true Self, without being heavily influenced by external expectations or fears. This card also suggests a dynamic relationship with the flow of life, encouraging one to remain perpetually open to transformation. In readings, The Fool is almost always depicted as an empty vessel; as it progresses through life, it is filled and emptied, again and again.

The last memory I have of myself embodying The Fool was around 7 years ago. I was nineteen, despicably naive yet still holding onto this strong sense of false bravado. I sometimes wonder what she would think of me now—of this twenty-six year old repressed queen of second guessing herself and everything she dares to touch. She would laugh at my face, that’s what she would do. She would laugh and tell me “it’s not that serious, honey” and go back to her dorm to get ready for a frat party.

Not to say The Fool is an unbothered, borderline-alcoholic college sophomore, but there is something to be said about channeling the energy of uncertainty and somehow making that “your bitch” (as my nineteen year old self would say). 

7 years from now, I’d prefer not to question my Self as much as I do now. Here I am, staring into the mirror, living in a post-apocalyptic thought experiment, and reading Tarot to make sure I know who I am and what is possible for me. 

Embracing The Fool—a cosmic burst of energy equally fearless in its radiance and in its moments of formidable dullness–—may be the highest form of devotion to myself.

So, I make my journey. 

xx prathigna xx