I sit under my weeping willow. Shoulders slumped in the casual posture of a lazy mystic. I tilt my head to receive slightly subsonic signals sent duoversally. Eyes closed against the tickling shade. Chin tucked against shards of slicing sunlight.
I hold a fogged old lens to an opened eye. I see the world explode into a kaleidoscope of pieces. Every crack in the magnifier throwing my perception into rent and jagged compartments.
This is the view of my world. Beautifully marred. Why don't other people reciprocate the truth of my consciousness?
We're all just curious bees at a stained-glass window.
I see objective truths in my shattered prism of my monocle. I prefer the world askew. I ask other people what they see, and am always disappointed by their indignation. Their vision is rarely as colorful. Often less interesting.
I wish I could reconcile my subjectivity with their ignorance. The onus of explanation always falls to me. I bite my tongue to swallow the constant litany of reality.
I understand the meaning of life. Regrettably, there are no words to convey it's meaning to them.
11:25 p.m. - 2014-06-03
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