It is at times, in the midst of silences between words and gazes, that I find myself drawn to the faces around me—whether they be mere passersby, casual acquaintances, or those who brush past in the final, fading seconds of a moment. To me, they seem achingly close, as if our souls are bound by some unseen thread. Each face, each pair of eyes, holds a story I yearn to know, a journey I long to share. And, almost impossibly, a tender longing rises within me—a wish that they might have all that the universe could grant: peace, joy, and the comfort of belonging.
I ache to be part of their odyssey, to lift some hidden burden, to offer something that might ease their path. Within them, I glimpse fragments of myself—moments of joy, of suffering, of quiet resilience. I want to reach out, to connect, to marvel at the wonder of their becoming.
Yet, even as my heart extends towards them, I find myself inhabiting a place of separateness, a place that renders me a mere observer. I am an observer at a distance, removed from their world. A space still lingers between us, as though I exist in a different hue, as though I am a stranger in their sphere. They carry on in their movements, in their laughter and conversation, under a light that feels both intimate and remote. And I, here, remain caught in a quiet void they neither see nor wish to see.
It is as if I belong to another form of humanity—a shape that is apparent yet tantalisingly elusive, something perhaps felt but never fully grasped. I exist among them, within their space, yet in close opposition to their beings. My heart reaches, yet my body remains a stillness within me. They do not know me, these strangers whose stories and lives I hold in quiet reverence, this involuntary tenderness hidden within. And I wonder, across this vast expanse of existence we share, is it possible that they, too, feel this strange longing—a need to belong, to be seen, to be connected, to be, somehow, a ‘we’?
No comments:
Post a Comment