You remember the movie so morbid macabe ... a young dashing handsome man has a portrait painted. And as the years roll by, he amazingly stays the picture perfection of the portrait .. never aging but outliving loves and friends, while behind a locked door, covered with a vintage cloth, the winsome portrait has aged into hideous disfigurement at every evil deed done and every dark thought dear dorian ever had; every crime he ever committed in keeping this horror hidden is exposed in every gruesome scar on that canvas.
We on the other hand, experience the opposite - we grow older in our life and experience, sin and sadness, love and loss, each moment tracking it's way across our face - yet still wanting to keep that younger more pleasing portrait of ourselves before us and others; ripping up and tearing into fragments unflattering images, and holding on to those very few where the light has captured our image at just the right angle showing us in our best light.
Somehow, as we grow older we forget that march of time that is happening, even at times frightening ourselves in the mirror because caught of guard still seeing that lovelier version of ourselves in our minds eye - the shock stark reality of what we confront confounds our blind imagination. Sometimes it's all so strange to see death beginning to dwell on my face. Yet other times its strangely comforting and familiar - like seeing my mothers sweet face looking back at me. I have to think about that ...
