I am looking at myself. It’s a portrait from 15 years ago. I am smiling. Why? Who knows? Maybe my parents. I’m smiling at the camera. Something I am incapable of now. But I do smile. I can’t look at it. Because whenever I try to, in front of a mirror, I am disgusted by my face. Then that takes precedence over my attempt of smiling. My self-hate. But it’s ironic. I just told you that I know I smile. How can I know if I can’t see myself smiling in the mirror? It’s because I can feel it. When can I feel it? When I am talking to myself. It intrigues me that the person I hate the most is the person I am the most comfortable with. And that somehow intrigues me!