Glass Furnace Face

More about Glass Furnace Face

They say that faces are archives, and mine feels like it’s been filed away in some molten library. I look out through gridded panes of heat, every square a memory sealed in something that pretends to be solid but still hums with motion. The world around me has dissolved into amber and ember, a city of melted windows, half transparent, half disguised, always one temperature too hot to touch without consequence.

I didn’t plan to become this person made of reflections. I only kept walking through fires because I thought they were doors. Each season pressed itself into me like a metal stamp. Regrets folded into the cheeks. Love soldered into the brow. Silence welded behind the lips. Lessons cooled into thin fractures, visible only when the light catches from a particular angle. People say they see strength here, but it’s really just glass that hasn’t shattered yet.

There is a hum behind the face, like a furnace still burning even when the day is done. I live inside that heat, inside the echo of things I said and didn’t say, inside arguments that never finished, inside tenderness that arrived too late. Every color in here is urgent. Every line insists on existing. Even the stillness flickers.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what becoming truly oneself looks like: not a smooth portrait, not a polished likeness, but a mosaic held together by stubbornness and temperature, by the refusal to cool completely. I blink, and the grids ripple. I breathe, and the walls of my features lean and settle like molten glass deciding where it belongs. I am neither finished nor undone. I am perpetually setting, perpetually soft at the core.

Outside, the world keeps insisting on clarity. Labels. Angles. Clean edges. But I know better. I know that all faces are furnaces, all souls burn behind their windows, all lives distort as they glow. Mine is just honest about it.

So here I stand: not heroic, not tragic, simply incandescent and trying. A figure in a field of heat, held in place by will, watching the light hit me, refract, break, multiply, and return as something stranger, something truer. I am what fire remembers after it cools.