I’ve been working at a plastic surgery clinic for the past seven months, and my homework has been to answer the question of ‘what is a face?’
Has that question ever crossed your mind?
Today, as I was leaving my morning swim lesson on a bike, a face hung upside down in my retina, like the full moon shining thru a window on the wall.
The blink of your eyes, the way your eyelids hung low above the horizon of your cheeks, they reminded me of the evening crescent, I once saw, chasing after the sun over the Pacific. I was drinking wine and watching you from the other side of the Bay.
The sky rests on your face. A whole month of it.
Your complexion is brighter than the silicate white of the full moon, bathing in the full sun, but where you blush, your face is soft and gentle underneath the surface. Your freckles, daytime stars.
That momentary vision of morning aura, I’ve seen the constellations shift over a million nights, the meteors occasionally coming and gone. So have I, on my bike, on towards Gangnam clinic.
Sometimes, certain concepts are so complex that they escape explicit definition. Face is one of them. Aesthetics is another.
IF I knew what it was, I couldn’t tell you. And IF you were to see it, you probably would not recognize it.
Truth is that we fail to see the flower because the flower does not exist for us.
But we can’t be faulted for not being bees.