we run amok in the world. we portray who we are and make portrayals of what we see. we carry them around. they are never what they are. loose and rabid, the roam, they jostle, they grow. words, scents, gestures get tacked on. who are you? you have to ask, who are you?
everything is just a shell, some inner thing hardening and softening the exterior in turn. never clear as glass, only enough to see the shape, the shade of a color. you can even point to yourself and say, “this is it, what you see is what you get.” but we have no real idea what they see. we have no fucking clue how they are looking.
maybe it’s a vying for a certain kind of attention, a certain attenuation, a common frequency where the outside meets the inside, the context fits the place, the present settles its debt with the past. maybe its the vying from all sides, the push and pull, and the accumulation of experience that dictates this has all been done before and we know better: there is only fear and disappointment, only the chasm, the gap, the distance is real, nothing else.
for the briefest moment i think i’ve tuned into her and i see something clearly. something pure.
it is, of course, still a matter of debate, after all this time, what i actually see.