Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Don't Touch Me.

You know her.

The girl who is all roses and smiles.
She won't always show teeth when she grins and finds that unnatural is the sound of anger.
Despite this, the closest you'll actually get to her is transparency.

If you're looking at every inch of a thing, microscopes and autopsies will show that to grab on distorts the image. Cutting off blood flow. Marring detail. Changing. So are you really holding her? Or is she only the unattainable image? The closest you can get to cradling that is to take a picture. Which time will eat away at with hungry lights and burning tongues and settling grime. Who is she? The face in the frozen moment? Or the moment you see through a faded 2D 4X6 window cracked and wrinkled by the wallet it folded into? If the face, then she's gone. Age made her a new one. If the moment, she became someone else in the next.
Everyone has a separate reality. What appears to one is entirely different from what appears to another. The eyes that view a thing find separate parallels. Two lines on the same plane arriving at completely different destinations.

I don't want you to have any part of my soul because you don't know what it means.

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