Phantoms

I’ve always been on the fringe of the social circle. Much like a donut, the core of my peers seems a hollow, meaningless thing granted both a name and recognition. I prefer the tangible–I always have. I see my classmates, as little more than bleating phantoms. I hear them; I feel them; I’m never quite sure I see them. Oh, I see their shells, their armor, and their callous hides of lipstick and eye shadow–but I can’t think of a single person I’ve ever truly laid eyes on. My sense of life is that I am my own truth, my own soul–for how can I be influenced by someone that doesn’t truly exist? Am I the sole individual amidst a populace of bodies? It cannot be so, yet "I think, therefore I am," and I often feel as though I am the only one who truly does think.

The truth is glaringly painful when one pulls the wool from over his eyes: people are forever seeking enlightenment. The irony is that most can’t handle the light they so vehemently seek. Instead of piercing the thick veil of shadows that is their existence, they blind themselves–desperate humans unwittingly emulating a modern day ?dipus. Darkness is something of an anesthetic. The blush on one’s cheeks and the clothes on one’s body mean so very little when no one can see her, and even less when she can’t see herself. I’m cursed with the ability to see the shadows people don like worn out overcoats they can’t bear to throw away, but unable to do anything about it. I’ve cast off my clinging shadow, or perhaps I’ve merely strengthened it to a point where I merely think I’ve conquered it. Nevertheless, I stand staunchly by the former idea; I believe my intelligence and spirituality to be richer since my revelation. That notwithstanding, to view these shades without color is a truly painful experience.