2nd August, 2018
23:42

Today I came across two things in the morning which froze me in time and I spent the whole day pondering on it. Two people whom I never expected to hear these things from. One, a complete stranger, to whom I might've opened a bit more than I usually show others and may have possible scared or worse scarred him. Uhh… *shudders* The other was unexpected since I always, always get bored in her class. [This semester seems to be getting sexier by the day.]

    • "...what do you see when you look into the mirror?", she asked.

      whatever I see,
      none of that is me.

      And how sad is that. Looking at your own self but not really seeing yourself. One sees how they don't look they way beauty standards are set. Another sees beauty - only the vague frame of skin and bones - seeing what people praise in their body. Face, figure, etc, etc.

      Then again, all of that what we see, all is influenced by other people. I wonder, what do babies see, who know nothing of what the world sees them as, of what the world expects them to be. I wonder what would we see, if we would have no outer world experience - just ourselves and our thoughts. Will we see ourselves the same as we do now?

  • "...don't you see I don't have what you want,
    my heart is not with me..."

    These were the lines he had written in one of his poems. I read some of his poems, which he showed me, said they were personal poems and I felt happy to see his courage, to let out his private world and laid it out for us to see. There was sadness. A sadness which overwhelmed me. A pain, I wasn't sure he himself knew it yet, but it was unbearable for me. Each poem, after a few lines, I felt unable to read the words further, for the agony wrecked me halfway, I felt rooted in the middle. Stuck. Lost. Somehow, I wasn't reading the poem at all, I was seeing him. I don't think I like seeing people like that. Sad.

    I've never read anyone's poems right in front of them, right in front of their curious eyes. It has always been in private, shying from their eyes, unknown from their eyes. But he sat there, looking at me reading his works - the parts of him which clung onto the words, some hid between words, some boisterously flailed among the words... but all of it was him.


    Featured image is from here.

bjvwv

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *