Eyes

In a rare and fleeting moment of candor, I confess that I don't know why the sun shines, or why the moon casts back its light. It's all too bright for my dim eyes, which hardly see at all, whose function seems to be to stand as walls between my soul and the glare of the world, to turn restlessly like an ocean in which my dreams are reflected -- and through them my soul speaks, and by them my gaze caresses. Lips are for kisses and lies; sorrow speaks truth from the eyes. That's why, when I look into someone else's eyes, I see myself, reflected like a dream. Buddha saw himself in all beings, and all beings in himself -- like the vast, thrashing, thrusting ocean. My heart is not so great, nor so cold. It's hard enough to hold myself together, contained within this perishing tissue. How can I see past myself?

What do I know? I know the intractability of distance and of destiny.

Kidding. I know it all. I'm a regular Encyclopedia Brown. Test me. Ask me anything. And then feel my muscle.


J