He came storming into my room.
''I-I saw a MONSTER!'' he screeched shakily. Iwas sprawling comfortably on my bed, reading a soothing book, enjoying the steadyinfluxes of cool air, pouring out of the air conditioner.
''A Monster?! Okay!'' I replied, rather sarcastically. "Spare me yourobnoxious tricks, Omar; I've had enough,'' I scolded with exasperation. '' You keep telling me the weirdest things.'' '' You really need to come. You really need to see him. He looks sougly, so horrifying,'' he whispered solemnly. I hopped off the bed in anger. '' Ah, again! WHERE IS HE? WHERE'S THE MONSTER,OMAR!?'' I shrieked in stifling anger. He reluctantly raised a hand. He pointed tohimself in the mirror, his expression tight with fear. '' He's me, Muhammad. Myreflection, star thoroughly,'' he whispered feebly
I staredand stared. I squinted. I craned my neck. I tilted my head. He sounded so grim,so serious and scared. But I saw nothing. I only saw a reflection of a veryhandsome-looking young man. ' ' ' I sighed and crossed my arms in front of mychest, expressing my frustration with his constant calls. '' Muhammad, I see a very ugly me whenever Ilook into mirrors. I see shaky hands when people tell me it's steady. I feel weakeven though they don't notice,'' Omar trotted out. I didn't clearly get what he's trying tocommunicate to me. But, for a moment, I sensed that Omar is being honest. Heseems to be really seeing ugly reflections of beautiful figures. He saw it butI did not. I saw him according to my perceptions of him. The matter seems todiffer for him though. '' Omar,'' I called genially, '' What's wrong. What's theircoating your eyes, forcing you to disfigure your reflections?''. He bent his head forward. It seemed as if itweighed a thousand pounds. I could easily tell that he's at unease. He seemedvulnerable. He seemed to own a version of him that nobody did. They all seemedto think kindly and positively of him. But Omar's reflection of himself seemedto be tinged with streaks of depression and feebleness. '' I think I know why you're seeing eeriereflections, Omar. I can cure you. I think I can,'' I told him, sounding earnest and certain. His eyes widened. He raised his burdened headand fastened his eyes at me, looking so confused. '' First, I need you to help me understand moreclearly. How are you feeling? What do you exactly see, Omar?'' I asked himcalmly. '' It's me that I see. It's different from whatthey claim they eye. It's me that I see yet it seems that my eyes color me withthe darkest crayons of all. I've asked strangers before on how to see a morebeautiful me. They recommended expensive colognes and expensive clothing. Ibought and bought. I felt addictions standing in for the blood that used toflow. Now all I see are monsters, angry monsters that act like water vaporcaking wide mirrors, disallowing me from seeing me. Now, after I've asked thewrong people, I can't help but resorting to you, Muhammad, telling you that Isee ugly people staring menacingly back at me. These monsters are threateningmy well-being. I need them out of mylife, but, please, don't tell me to reach out for my back pocket, get my walletout, and pay you money to offer me better reflections. They have done this to me,and I've ran out of money, Muhammad. Does it really require money to scare uglyreflections away?'' Omar confided.
His words were sincere. Omar sees monstrousreflections. Maybe they're not real monsters, but they sure do have the sameeffect on a bruised soul. They frighten and alienate. They caused him to pickup speed whenever passing by bathrooms or long aisles with wide mirrors. Afailure to comply, ideal expectations, or constant pursuits to reachingabandoned places, called happiness by deceptive people can create forlornmonsters staring back at you. '' Omar, I will certainly help you with this.It hurts me to see monsters and ugly reflections scaring you away. It doesn'trequire money, Omar. Whoever told you that is the real monster that should behurled from high windows. It requires you to change. It requires you to takesome conclusive decisions to heal yourself,'' I advised wisely, with my handsresting lightly on his slender shoulders. Omar didnot buy the magic book to scaring away monsters. He did not pay visits togrey-haired witches. Omar simply had a chit-chat with his spirit, the oneresponsible for the gruesome breeding of the scary reflections. He listenedcarefully to what it needs. It seemed hard, harder than reaching out for moneyand excitedly paying it to deceptive, lusty vendors. His mashed, bruised soulneeded new blankets made of self-esteem. It urged him to say and do, developwillingness to doing something and realize it. His repressed soul asked him toaspire and achieve. It asked him to abstain from justifying; it helps monstrousreflections to grow faster and scarier. Now thatOmar knew, he no longer will burst into my room and disrupt the joy of reading.Now that Omar knew, I can expect no more pleads for checking out fictionalmonsters. Now that Omar knew, I know that sometimes we create our own monsters.
--------------------------------------------Inspired by: Being mindful of my own monstrous self-image
