The Seeing Eyes
Jun 22, 2017
The things another can see, I wonder now and again. The blind knowledge set before me. I'll ask myself time and time again. What do they see when they see me? Just a thing, another human, a dinner plate? I do not always think the world or myself in it so clearly. At those times, I can do little but distance or grow deeply frustrated by mystifying imagination. They can't see what I see. I can't see what they see. Am I troubled, or am I troubled by naught?
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When things started to build up for me, I wanted to scream. Louder than a pillow could hide. I wanted to grip my fists until my palms bruised. All this emotion. Irrational? Justified? Did I deserve to be so angry, so sad, so frustrated? Ask person to person and they'll have a different answer. So I walked away. I walked away from all these people and out into the woods.
To a place where a strange sheet calls to me. A reminder, a beacon. Is it hope? I don't know. I want to understand. I want to call out. I want to hope....I want to change again.
To a place where a strange sheet calls to me. A reminder, a beacon. Is it hope? I don't know. I want to understand. I want to call out. I want to hope....I want to change again.
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