Prose for the Unknown

Please try to realize that you're a mystery to me. I can barely see past my present self, much less put together the puzzle pieces of everyone else. But I try. I ask myself why, constantly. Hoping maybe I can supply the understanding I so desperately seek. Sometimes the woes of this world leak into my personality. But that’s not me. We’re so much more than what we’d have everyone else think. That exposed exterior is inferior to the interior of our individual being. So what is it keeping us from seeing that? Probably the same thing that blinds us to the beauty of variety. The attention in our eyes is forced to compromise. Energy wasted sifting through the lies instead of observing what’s inside all of us. The glory of existence is lost in worldly causes. No one pausing to acknowledge that maybe the way we think is supported by some semblance of reasoning. The experiences of our parents led them to our creation, but we’re free from their expectations based on irrelevant information. We’re constantly and unconsciously changing the way we view the day each day, but don’t have the courage to converse with those who share in the fray. We’ll distract ourselves with frozen memories on phones and videos of controlled moments, and when the time comes where the times don’t make much sense, we’ll remain silent. We’ll begin to take these thoughts manifested in isolation as universal truths. And then wonder why our fellow man is losing touch with us. The state of our state is not conducive to the way we generate compassion. So just ask them. Take into consideration the possibility of facts beyond your grasp and relapse into that childlike ignorance that is willing to give the unknown a chance.