The Unseen Me: A Portrait Beyond the Mirror

“The Unseen Me: A Portrait Beyond the Mirror“

If I were to introduce myself to someone who could not see me, I would not begin with my height or the colour of my eyes, nor the way my hair has silvered with time. For the essence of a man lies not in the contours of his face but in the contours of his character, not in how he appears under sunlight but in how he endures through stormlight.

I am the sum of my thoughts and the scent of my memories — a traveller of time, quietly walking through seasons of laughter and solitude. You might think of me as a river, not always rushing, not always still — shaped by the valleys I have passed, carving meaning through the rocks of routine and uncertainty.

If you touch my words, you will feel a texture of sincerity, sometimes wrapped in silence, sometimes rippling with resonance. My voice holds echoes of dusty classrooms, of chalkboards and young dreams, of philosophical debates under banyan trees and long walks beneath the stars.

I am a seeker — not of riches or renown — but of understanding. I find poetry in the rising mist and philosophy in the fading light. I believe in the gentle rustle of leaves as much as in the heavy weight of truth. The world, to me, is not just what is visible, but what vibrates within — a spectrum of feelings, ideals, faiths, and fragile hopes.

I would tell you that my gait may be slower now, but my will is no less fierce. That though years have crept upon my shoulders, they haven’t dimmed the fire in my belly nor the curiosity in my eyes. I am aged like autumn — crinkled, golden, and contemplative. But within, there still beats the song of spring.

You may not see the colour of my skin, but you can sense the colour of my kindness in my words. You may not observe the lines etched on my face, but you may read the lines I have etched into time — in the lives I’ve touched, the lessons I’ve taught, and the stories I still carry.

If I were music, I would be a soft hymn at dusk. If I were a tree, I’d be one with low-hanging branches that invite the weary to rest. If I were a book, I’d be a dog-eared volume of musings, both weighty and whimsical, annotated by experience and edited by grace.

I carry with me the bruises of battles fought within, and the balm of blessings received without asking. I have walked alone in crowded halls and found company in quiet corners. I laugh easily, cry rarely, and forgive often. I know the fragrance of loss, the music of hope, and the silence of surrender.

I am the unseen me — neither masked nor marred by the eyes that cannot see, but naked in my truth, robed in reflection, and adorned in dreams.

So, if you wish to know me, close your eyes and feel — for I am not the image you behold, but the soul you sense. And that, dear friend, is the truest way I wish to be known.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust