Eyes, Smile, and Hands of Consciousness

March 22, 2014

I’ve seen so many eyes, understood so many glances, and misunderstood an even greater amount.
They laugh at what scares them, are scared of what they look for, look away from what they want, and make do with what is easy.
Our Eyes, they have it tough. Yet, after struggling between what we want them to see and what they should see, they look confused, and we use them still.
We exploit our confused eyes, and let them define ourselves.
I’ve sat down with many eyes that have harmonized the greatest peace for me.
I’m grateful to those eyes that know what they’re doing.

I’ve felt the warmth of certain smiles, and the cool breeze of those less present.
Oh those smiles that deliberately freeze over beautiful faces, emanating a horror not unlike those of dead-end nightmares.
Smiles…

Hands.
Oh the many secrets hands can reveal…revelations of what lies behind a person’s words.
I’ve seen hands that have shown strength, have been unable to hide the instinct to comfort.
Some hands are unaware of their own grace.
Yet, you can be sitting with a set of safe eyes and a smile,
But fingers are tapping away on that darn rat-tat-table,
They give you away, send me away, and we are no longer both there,
Sitting across from each other; suddenly cross at one another, and then we blink and it is suddenly foolish to have thought so….

I am never this attentive; I would go mad.
But would I not be happier?
Maybe I should be this attentive in the present, and not write about it later.
Perhaps I should be, but I won’t.
It would be impossible, and I am grateful that it is.
Even if you, reading this, are Sir Holmes himself, I’m sure you would celebrate in the truth that it is impossible.

Now that I have convinced myself I am, in reality, not actually this aware, let us pretend that I was
And who I described is who you had coffee with yesterday, and will study with later on today.
So this is you, this is us, individually.
But never we, for we must maintain our un-differing individuality.
We must think that it is so.
We breathe in our sense of ourselves, and exhale it processed and easy to consume.
We want others to consume us, devour our complexity, yet
We yearn to present it on the simplest of platters.
We try to balance salt and sugar, silver-coating nuances that are harder to consume.

Then, we turn toward an illusion of an individual we’ve made real,
In whom we find complexity beyond measure,
And consider them ideally at peace with themselves;
Somehow, they can do it and not I.
This one has one way or another of communicating his crookedness,
And when we lack in our ability to present ourselves like they do,
We think we lack crookedness, intrigue, individuality…
When all the crookedness seen through lacking eyes,
Are only lacking the ability to speak.

But eyes, of mine and yours, they speak.
And I only and always too often rely on their doing.
Eyes communicate always enough, yet at times, never satisfy.
We see truth in them, but yet, want to be convinced still.
And that’s where speech lacks, because the ideal being, the world sans-consciousness makes do with what is enough and doesn’t stick around to chat,
But our audience, is a difficult one,
And we too, are among our own audience that looks to be satisfied,
Our attempts to satisfy them are easily undone.

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