Wabi Sabi

(Trigger warning for self-harming)
                        
     
In Japanese aesthetics, there is a world view called "wabi-sabi." It centres on the beauty that can be found in imperfection. A crack in a tea-cup, a stain on a wall, an incomplete pattern. Ingrid has read all about this. She’s studied Japanese culture from a young age. As she stands in front of the mirror, she dissects her appearance. The warped image she sees, makes her want to dissolve into quicksand.
Her face is an imperfect tea-bowl. But no matter how much Wabi Sabi tells her there is beauty in those cracks, it won’t make her feel any less ugly.
Cosmetic surgery has been on her mind for a long time. The doctors could fix her brokenness. Her scars that mock her each and every second. But could they fix her torn-up heart? Her inner scars and wounds never seem to heal. They just ridicule her every waking moment. Her parents took her for cognitive behavioural therapy last week. But even as her therapist talked, Ingrid wasn’t listening. She gazed at her reflection in the window, nit-picking her looks once again. Perfect was never enough. She’d never be a complete person. Not as long as her own cracks laughed at her brokenness.

The mirror reveals the person she’s tried running from. The one person she can’t ever hide from. Ingrid could’ve been out in the sun. Basking in the rays of light. But how can she enjoy the sun when she wants to hide from it? In the shadows, she’s safe. Isolated from society. From her own reflection that taunts her like school bully. In the darkness, she will be fine.
The tweezers lays on her dresser, tantalisingly waiting for her to grasp it. Her skin itches to be picked. Her hands shake. Her palms become a sweaty mess.

Perfection is only another pick away.

How addictive prettiness can be.

Just look at her! Can’t she just wear a mask so we wouldn’t have to see her ugly face?
She needs plastic surgery. As in yesterday.
Ew! Who woke up Frankenstein?!
The voices shout louder than ever. Ingrid is certain everyone thinks she looks like a monster. They laugh at her. Taunt her. Soon enough, the tweezer is positioned between her trembling fingers.
The anguish of trying to erase her flaws, only increases her dissatisfaction. She wants so desperately to be complete. But she’s split in two.

A vase on the floor, in shards.

In a rage, she shatters her mirror. So that it matches the way she feels on the inside. Her fist bleeds. Hues of red streak her olive skin.
There’s no going back. This brokenness was designed for her.