Nothing new.

I had a dream last night that wasn't entirely a nightmare.

That in and of itself is unique, but the dream was... wonderful. Horrible and frightening, but beautiful and against all odds ended happily. With love. I haven't had a dream like that in years. Is it a form of narcissism to fall in love with someone your own mind invented? If it is, that's nothing we didn't already know about me.

Wake up in the morning to look in the mirror and what do we see? We see our self, with its many faces.

We see our lust. His skin so ashen and grey, his eyes a pair of lidless sockets, his bald head slick with a hot sweat. Pulpy lips surround a howling mouth of pink gums and bloody tongue. Sucking, gasping, wanting.

Blink and there's our gluttony. His jaundiced cheeks are hollow and his lips are sewn shut. With hands a wide as shovels he beckons toward his distended stomach, riven with stretch marks and split down the middle with a ravenous maw.

Tilting our head brings our greed into view. Tiny and dark with luminous eyes like search lights he huddles away from us, collecting his refuse close, unable to leave the pile of filth he guards so jealously.

With a sigh our despair makes the scene. Pus and blood coat the sores on his motionless body. Claws like sabers grind into the ground as he lies, unable to move, unable to breathe. Too lazy to even scratch the scabs he wears like clothing.

We shiver and our rage appears as hot and sharp as betrayal. His face is razor thin, chapped lips cracking and fevered skin dry as dust. His yellow eyes slit with oily pupils threaten, his pointed nose snorts smoke, his mouth grinds it's metal fangs.

We gasp and there is our envy, glowing and sickly, weeping for the things he cannot have. His dirty body is ignored, his cuts and bruises overlooked, everything less important than the search for what will make him happy.

And finally, with a shiver, our pride looks back at us. A crown of filth adorns his dirty hair and on his shoulders rests a mantle of trash. He admires us, admires himself, with all the sucking, violent, grasping fervor of his brothers. It is him we hate the most.

But, with a prayer, we see the face of the God in us. He looks nothing like the others, who in turn look nothing like us. For we were made in the image of God, not sin. In the light of His smile our sins vanish from the mirror. As long as we look upon that face, the disease is gone. Truly we are blessed.