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Simon Thibault

February 1999

At first the image held no name.

My feet hurt from the cold of the ice. It was mid-February, but it was sunny and the heat of the sun warmed the wind which grazed my newly-shaved head. I held the glass in front of my chest, closed my eyes and looked up, my eyes closed to the red pulse that gleamed in the sky.

The first time i saw it, it was devoid of colour. It was (in hindsight) subtled by the greys and blacks of the image. But it was me. I could see it.

Months passed and one day, i was shown the image. It had become my portrait. I was honoured that i could be seen in such a way, and it because i was seeing it, because i could see my face, and not have my mind attached to the body that lay before me, i could believe that perhaps, i was the person in the picture. But i was no Dorian Gray. I was not rotting off at the limbs, leprous scars over my body.

I was hidden, my eyes closed, and a sky exploding above me.

A few months later, i saw the image in a gallery. It had a name. "Simon". It really was me. I wept. Someone saw me in a way that I myself could not conceive. I was shown to the world, in a way that no words could touch, save for one. My name.

Thank you Francois


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