Vanity

“Vanity — by far the devil’s favorite sin.”

A line delivered in a film, sure. But it lingers like truth. Not just because Al Pacino made it sound biblical, but because deep down, we recognize it. Feel it. Live it.

Vanity doesn’t shout. It slithers. It’s not in the grand gestures — it’s in the glance that lingers a second too long. In the smirk that slices through a room like glass. It’s the silence that follows a compliment designed to condescend. The soft, syrupy tone of someone pretending not to see you — because in their world, you’re invisible.

It’s the lawyer adjusting his $1,000 tie, not because it’s crooked — but because he knows you noticed. It’s the wife sipping champagne, her fingers heavy with stolen gold, laughing a little too loud while the waitress behind her counts tips and dignity. It’s in the brunch chatter — hollow, performative — mocking lives they wouldn’t last a day living.

Vanity is not a sin of passion. It’s a sin of rot. Slow, creeping, polished to perfection. It wears perfume. It drives foreign. It dines rare. And all the while, it drains the soul behind smiling eyes.

Look closely: the shine of the car, the sparkle of the necklace — they blind you just long enough to miss the emptiness behind them. Eyes like mausoleums. Hearts long since pawned off for status and applause.

Vanity is everywhere. And it’s patient.

It doesn’t need to seduce you.

It just waits for you to look in the mirror a little too long.