A Collection of Spectacles

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Beyond the silence of the suburbs, encapsulating the ease of a breath, the quietude of a whisper, you lie awake, pressing “symmetrical static uniformity” (the recipe for nothingness) to a bare chest.  On a surreal night, I am crushed by this gentle force, exhibited by a musician whose hands hover apprehensively above keys, right before he commits and places his fingers down.

The spectrum of a sunset is absorbed by porous strands. In the morning, all I see is its radiance.

I’m looking at everyone’s happiness from the other side of a window. No, I’m not shown that much generosity. I’m looking at everyone’s happiness through a crack in a wall that’s barely an inch wide. Living life like a modern-day Mary, only the world is my room.  I’ve put up every boundary myself.

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Nice man. Quite awkward for someone his age though. 

“…you seem like a very happy person. You smile a lot, but maybe it’s a front?”

“Sorta. I am happy at times. For the most part, I am. I guess. But at the same time, I don’t feel much of anything.”

Then, I start playing the game. Because I’m bored. Because I want to make him uncomfortable, which is something that’s easy to do to a therapist. All you have to do is ask them about themselves. Turn the telescope around and watch them squirm. 

“Are you married?”

“You ask a lot of personal questions.”

He uncrosses his legs and then crosses them again. His notepad and pen are lying face down on the table.

“I’m divorced.”

“How long have you been?”

“Six years.”

Every time there is an awkward silence (and there are quite a few between us during this hour) I smile and then laugh. Every time this happens, he pauses and then does the same.

“Happiest memory.”

“I-I’m not going to answer that. If you keep doing this then we may have to switch chairs.”

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