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.
I often ask myself whether I'd be better off without the stigma of this
quasi-enlightenment upon my soul. Shall I be denied my shadowy delights simply
because I've caught a glimpse of the light? It burns, it sears, and every waking
hour is spent, in part, on pondering this double-edged truth which I both desire
and despise. Still, I cannot truly abhor it. I can only thank whatever allowed
me a glimpse beyond the blinders my peers seem to covet. The alleys, side
streets, and the tantalizing delights that a glance away from the beaten path
offer go unheeded by the great mass of men. I would prefer my ideals decreed
sickly and shot as a once proud horse might be, than to wallow in my own
numinous filth. To submit is to accept something other than who I am, the
alternative lifestyle being countless years of trudging down a road until the
end of my days, growing petulant and weary, and never to seeing the forest for
the trees, much less the forest itself.
It's ironic how this enlightenment inevitably leads to more enigmas. I now see
beyond the singular, and comprehend the reason as opposed to the action. How is
it, then, my understanding of human nature varies inversely to the number of
questions I have about it? I wonder, for every tear I see upon the face of the
girl who'd hoped to get that "A," and for every fist thrown over the
empty disputes that abound all about me, what drives these hollow men and women
to act as they do? I question the sort of shadowy puppet strings these people
affix to their limbs--these blind ghosts that cry over a red pen and batter each
other over nothing at all. Is this truly what we are--steely shells, tempered
with blazing ignorance, and saturated by nothing but good intentions? In this
regard, my thoughts help keep me one step ahead of society, and allow me the
sense to avoid its trappings. I will not shed tears over something I attempted
wholeheartedly; I will not strike a person if words can accomplish the same end.
This is the gift I have been given, and to close my eyes against the glaring sun
would be nothing less than ignorant.
I'm undecided whether the shadows of my mind have been cleared, or whether I'm
merely a blinded dupe who believes herself to be the only substantial figure
amidst a sea of specters. I cannot determine this, and I likely never
will--still, the very idea that I understand that I may be blinded sets me
further apart from others than anything else I can fathom. Have I found that
uncut diamond--that raw mass of knowledge that will someday gleam as a precious
stone? Or, have I found a deceptive piece of glass that will shatter when I
attempt to refine it?
Enigmas. Nothing more than enigmas.