The face grows old so fast.
We can’t look down and see our face
The way we can our hand.
We need an event to see our face,
We approach the mirror and there’s our face
Like a performance in a play.
There’s our face, thinking. Now what will it say today?
When I look down and see my hand,
I don’t care if it looks the way it does.
It’s my hand. It has unique curves and lines
But it’s a hand. Not my face.
What if we carried our heads at the end of our arms
And there they would be, plainly observable,
And we could study at leisure our heads, just as we do our hands?
Wouldn’t that be horrible? After all, faces are not hands.
Faces, when we suddenly glimpse them, make us sick.
A face fears, and that fear barely understands.