"I have lost everything," I tell you, 

"You have made me 

lose
everything"

With that it starts. 

Words slip off my tongue and I before I know it I’m jabbering and jabbering and the thoughts just keep coming and coming and I want to say things before you say them and I want you to just listen and not answer back and I want it to be easy for me to be right because damn it, I am right, and I want to prove that to me, then you, and I keep going and going and---

I’m talking in sign language.

You’re underwater and the tide is low so your world is far from mine again. I’m not making the slightest noise but it doesn’t matter because now, 

you can only hear codas*, anyway. 

This is what I don’t understand. Where are you when you leave my realm of understanding --you know, that silly little place where the sky is blue-- and how... how on earth do you get there?

Your existence has been part of mine for---far too many years and I guess somewhere between taking apart the world of concrete around us piece by piece with our bare hands and building it again from scratch with sarooj** and the smell of watercolor Magnolias, 

I have lost track of who you were and who I was before it was a we. 

Someone has turned off the lights now.

I can no longer see the things we built, I can no longer see your face, I have forgotten--

the sparkle in your eyes.

I know I’ve seen you at your best and I’ve seen you at your worst and that at some magical point in time, 

I have chosen 

both,

but at times like this I can’t remember why, how, how on earth.

And you know what the worst part is?

I am used to seeing the world in purple, now.

It has all been old polaroids and blackberry juice stains on white t-shirts for so long that when you take the blue away, 

even the red in the blood that gushes to my face with the anger from your words

feels odd and out of place.

I'm used to living in purple now...

goddammit.

* Pattern of click noises some species of whales use to communicate with each other.

** Construction material made of sand, clay, egg whites, lime, goat hair, and ash, used in certain parts of Iran. 

Inbox (1)

You want to.

You know you want to and you can’t fool me. Your calm-and-collected look is downright pathetic when I can see you shoot a glance at me every five minutes, waiting for a reaction. Every inch of your body aches with anticipation. Self-inflicted ambiguity has dominated your words for so long that you think by now it has numbed the pain but you’re terribly wrong. It’s just as painful as every other time and you do it all the same. Let’s face it, the fact that you have an eternity to think of the perfect answer that is just the right mixture of wit and indifference is an advantage that cannot be reached through any other communicational means. It’s just what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Absence of genuine response and natural reaction. I’m honoured to be your safe barrier. Something to hide behind, an invisible platform from which to express yourself without the fear of being judged. If anything goes wrong you can always blame it on the grammar and punctuation, right? I mean there’s always the asterisk button. So you just calmly sit down and have what ironically turns out to be a most theatrical conversation without ever raising your voice. Without ever even using you voice, actually. A whole conversation, a play of emotions, a change of opinions, all in silence. Oh, now it’s your turn. That’s right, make them wait. Make them beg for a response. Let them go over every single possibility of why you haven’t responded so many times in their head that it drives them insane. Leave just enough time for their imagination to get the better of them. Picture it in your mind how badly they want a response. Secretly take some delight in their pain. Forget the fact that you were in that position five minutes ago and repeat this role-reverse over and over for hours until the damage done to the reality of this interaction cannot be undone. Ah, isn’t this a treat to watch. I love being the medium for such a bizarre phenomenon. Two people trapped in a ridiculous, virtual game that they take to be effective communication. So caught up with the metaphors and the smiley faces and the abbreviations, they don’t realize that they’re moving farther and farther away from the truth of this moment. The key is in the ambiguity I provide, you see. There is so much reading-between-the-lines involved that there is almost no chance of anyone walking away with the right conclusion. Me, I just sit back and enjoy the show. You people fascinate me with the extent to which you can misuse a piece of technology.

(Now, I'm no expert in real-world experiences but I hear there is something about looking into the depths of someone’s eyes when you talk to them. Do us all a favour and go live this conversation in person. I think you want to.)

Metacalculation; Or: Why he prefers semicolons

He is late, he has had to fix his bike on the way, but all the heaven and men and devils won't bring him to a full stop, let alone his own ride;

His fingers are black with grease, but he doesn’t care, he runs into the hall instead, storms down the steps, wearing pink pants and a purple jacket, and throws his backpack on the podium;

"Qooestions, people?" he yells, as microphones are only for the short of breath, and pauses for a few seconds, but he is disappointed again, "No qooestions, people? How boring!";

His restless glance bounces off unresponsive pupils, all staring away into passivity and lacking in energy;

"Come on, people," he continues, "I have a special present for you if you parpici - participate in class discussions, it’s a book!";

He plays with a pointless electrical switch on the wall, but the class is still submerged in a tank of silence, with muffled voices murmuring in each corner, and he must go on - no one is interested in books anyway;

He walks up to the blackboard, where a layer of white chalk precipitates on the black grease as he writes, "Announcements", the very same ones which he realizes he has forgotten, as formalities often slip his mind, and he thus adds, "find them online";

Then, just before starting the lesson, he hesitates for a second and thinks about the mass production of education that in a few years’ time might dull his little daughters’ happy curiosity to the same level as his students’;

But he then scratches his chin, looks at the half-empty class, and resumes his contribution to the process - people need to learn;

The exact same spot.

I am a teddy bear staring out
of the bedroom window.
Head bowed, eyes downcast, exuding sorrow.
Perhaps today, something will change.

Peanut butter sandwiches. The ants attack
a red-checkered blanket.
Pattering footsteps. Screams.
"Tickle tickle tickle." Giggles.
A shift in mood.
I remain unmoved.
Tall, wooden, static.

A pile of black and red ties. Ruckus and
a bucket of ice. Squeaking joints.
Flashes. Authority.
The smell of vodka
and vomit.
It overwhelms me.
I do nothing.

Damp eyelashes. An athletic jacket
shared between two.
A hand seeking solace in the depths
of the outer pocket.
Anxiously waiting.
Intrusion. They try to escape.
The clouds express what she cannot.
I absorb it all.
Perhaps they speak for me too.
HIDDEN LINK
You see, it is but what I perceive that changes.
Because I cannot.

Eyes Hopefully Open

Having had more than enough time to think about this weblogish endeavour, as is evident in my rather late introduction, I have finally come to terms with its premises. Even though objective writing in this context is an oxymoron – since creative writing is, by nature, very subjective – that is not what we are striving for. We are trying to achieve a vision characterized by empathy and broadness of scope, a vision that can help us constantly be in the mode of learning from everyone and everything. Humility, observance, and understanding are the values we try to practice in everyday life during this project. That is the main part. The experiences we gain from these practices are then shared through Borrowed Eyes. The formal constraints we put on our posts are merely reflective of the contents of this challenge.

For me, this blog is the result of a belief in individuality. It is based upon the notion that each of us contains a piece of the truth and therefore deserves -needs- to be understood. This view of individuality seems to be so inclusive that is not only attributed to every person, but also to every tree, bird, and pebble. Although the personification of inanimate objects may be attributed to the writer’s imagination rather than the understanding of any objective reality, what is important in this project is the formation of that imagination. As long as it is grounded in open-mindedness, it is most welcome.

Observance is key. If you miss all that is essential, well, too bad. Perspectives are the most essential. But I am not always a very observant person; I recently made one of my nails almost entirely black by slamming a door on my own fingers. Gentle wake-up call?

Zzzz.

People Like Him.

"Good day," he calls out to passersby in the streets. Just like they would in the old-fashioned black and white movies.

Some people smile and wave.

"How ya doin', miss?"

Some people give an acknowledging nod.

"God bless you, sir."

Some people walk on.

"Beautiful sunshine we got today."

Some people take him to be a typical, friendly homeless man.

"Take care, ma'am."

Some people think he's trying to pick up girls.

He is not at all vulgar. He's dressed cleanly, casually leaning against a low stone wall. He looks like the kind of guy who would whistle down the streets with his hands in his pockets.

He doesn't care what they think.

He looks into the quiet little town, and sees only what he understands.

Not fathers or mothers or students or children or doctors or lawyers or store-owners or janitors...

Just people.

People like him. 

People that he wants to meet and get to know.

People that make him smile and feel happier.

People that care too often only about rushing to and from here and there.

Too preoccupied, too busy to see the beauty around them.

He's not looking for anything.

Not for love or money or sex or recognition or gratitude.

Companionship, maybe.

Just another person like him.

Yet, even on a beautiful cloudless Saturday afternoon...

When people have the time to walk a little more slowly, or stroll about a little more easily, or breathe in a little more deeply...

No one stops to have a conversation with him.

Not a single person.

"Have a good day now."

It is a sweet, ambiguous, ironic illusion
what I create.
It is the awakening of colours that may or may not have actually resided in the canvas threads of this moment
It is a symphony of rich, strong-willed voices.
The volume is key here
not the words
or the content
or the hidden meanings.
Here, the music is so loud you might as well be talking under water.
But you can hear whatever you want, too

I can be your silence.

With a flushed face and sparkly, absent-minded eyes
she’s having the most interesting conversation she’s had in a while
He
just likes the absence of uncertainty.
And don’t get me wrong
Not many step into this deal with something in mind
I create the purpose
the goal materializes out of the hot, saturated air the moment you step into it
–the moment you embrace the insanity and choose to be a part of it
Let go,
Let go,
Let go.

Have another sip.

She takes a long deep breath of the look in his eyes
He can see the ocean on her breath, you see
He can see whatever he wants
They paint their own pictures.
Ah,
‘This isn’t real’, you say
‘When they leave, when the world goes back to sleep in the morning
the spectacle vanishes.’
Well, let me ask you one thing about your grand views on sobriety
What if one is as often drunk
as one is not?
What becomes the reality then?

Awareness doesn’t come only in sharp, solid images.
In the morning she remembered the heat
and the colours
and that he was from a small town in Ontario.