echo at the feet of narcissus

navigating my complex relationship with the concept of "love"

the knight of the flowers - georges rochegrosse

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” my roommate tells me after I hang up the phone, “but you said something like I wish you could see yourself how I see you. Except if you saw yourself how I see you, you’d be the biggest narcissist in the world, so maybe not. And I wanted to know if I could tell my girlfriend the same thing.” I think: maybe I was meant to be a poet. Or: a lover. Sometimes they’re the same thing.

I let her borrow my words. I borrow my own words, I write: if you could even feel an ounce of how you look in my eyes, the world would drown you in a river and declare you Narcissus reincarnate. I delete the line. The moment’s passed, the phone call has ended, we’ve broken up. The original truth in the words become erased by the overly flowery language; I hope that at least my roommate had better luck using my line. I think: maybe I was meant to be a scam artist. Or: a poet. Sometimes they’re the same thing.

In elementary school, my class put on a short production of the myth of Echo and Narcissus. I fall in love with my own reflection in Echo and throw a tantrum until my class lets me say her lines. I convince myself I am in love with the boy playing Narcissus because it makes for a better story. I think I am more in love with being in love than actually in love, but the sentence loops around itself one too many times. I say “I fall in love with my own reflection as Echo” and the irony is in how it was Narcissus that loved the mirror. But what is an echo but a reflection of sound? I think I am more in love with the reflection of my reflection than my actual reflection, but the sentence loops too tightly around my neck so I let it go.

People say narcissist like it’s a dirty word. I feel like a rabid dog in an alley watching people kick at a dead rabbit; once they leave, I will devour it whole. When I write stories, I write myself into the role of a knight in shining armor, but in truth, I feel no better than a dog at your feet. There is an arrow coming for both our hearts and the only promise I can make is to be shot first. I think I am more obsessed with the arrow itself than what it represents: give me proof of this love over the love itself. Cupid is not present in Echo’s story — it is Nemesis who grants Narcissus love in his own reflection. I think I might not know how to love gently, I can only give what is due.

I am at the bank of the river repeating your words. I am at the bank of the river mimicking your reflection. You tell me pretty words and I say them back to you and I am not sure if I believe in the words themselves or their echo. Before nemesis meant enemy, it meant retribution. You ask for wine, I’ll pour it. This glass is overflowing, I will lick the excess off your fingers. I am feeding a fantasy, I am feeding myself, I am feeding the reflection of Narcissus hoping that its echo will reflect back onto me, instead. Nemesis curses Narcissus as a favor to Echo, but Echo’s immortality is reduced to a reflection as a result.

I ask my friends: is this love? I repeat the question over and over again and get the same response back; this love is obvious to everyone except its targets. This love feels real to everyone except the ones actually feeling it. I feel like a wolf all too aware of its own sheep’s clothing — I am a fraud that has convinced everyone that a reflection is the original. I think: maybe I was meant to be a scam artist. Or: a lover. Sometimes they’re the same thing.

Echo and Narcissus face a mirror and both are looking at Narcissus’ reflection. Narcissus is looking at himself, Echo at the reflection. Echo falls in love with a reflection and the irony is that an echo is a reflection. Narcissus looks into the mirror and says “I love you.” Echo looks at Narcissus in the mirror and says “I love you, too.”

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