Wonder 7- The Eyes of A Stranger
I wonder how I look through the eyes of a stranger.
Sitting here writing.
I wonder what they see-- and all they don't.
Can they see my scars? Not just the slight indent on my chin, the curved line on my thumb, or the faint marks decorating my knee- proof of a childhood spent wild and free- but the ones less visible, the ones buried inside my labyrinth of a mind.
Can they see my eyes? Not just their brown color (or green- with enough light, tears, or notice), but the stories they tell, the pain they hold, their watery release.
Can they see the lines on this face, my face? Yes, this face. The one I battle with. The one I attempt to fix as if it's broken. The one I look at (or rather look at the reflection of) the one I ridicule. The one I paint over, decorate, and furnish as if it's a never complete picture. As if I'm never complete. I cover what is human, I hide what is natural, and for what? The approval of these unfamiliar faces, so unique, and so (un)like my own?
But I wonder how I look through a stranger's eyes. Not a mirror-warped version, not through the lens of criticism, not tacked with pre-conditioned judgement,
not anything but me.
Me. Sitting here writing:
Raw. Clear. Absolute.