You Can't Handle the Truth

by wootbot

Love Thyself. Not That Much.

​1st Place in Derby #333: Personality Types, with 232 votes!

There was a fountain silver-clear and bright, which neither shepherds nor the wild she-goats, that range the hills, nor any cattle's mouth had touched—its waters were unsullied—birds disturbed it not; nor animals, nor boughs that fall so often from the trees. Around sweet grasses nourished by the stream grew; trees that shaded from the sun let balmy airs temper its waters. Here Narcissus, tired of hunting and the heated noon, lay down, attracted by the peaceful solitudes and by the glassy spring.

Narcissus pulls his phone from his pocket to take a picture of the idyllic scene, but the camera is pointed toward him and he catches a sight of his own handsome image. He mistakes the image on his phone as an object to be loved, and is so stricken with desire that he cannot look away. 

Long, supine upon the bank, his gaze is fixed on his own eyes, twin stars; his fingers shaped as Bacchus might desire, his flowing hair as glorious as Apollo's, and his cheeks youthful and smooth; his ivory neck, his mouth dreaming in sweetness, his complexion fair and blushing as the rose in snow-drift white.

Stroking the face of his beloved on the screen, the beautiful youth accidentally takes a picture. Alarmed, he browses his camera's camera roll and sees himself captured forever there, perfect as always. "Everyone must see this." Narcissus says, and posts the photo to Instagram. 

And that is the story of how Narcissus invented the selfie.