A stranger looks back at me in the mirror. Not just in appearance. There the strange unfamiliarity resides behind my eyes. They don't seem to be those that are mine. They look like the Eyes of My Father. They look like the eyes of my brother. Of my mother. Of my lover. Behind those eyes I see the grocery clerk who asks 100 people how their day is
As he counts to hurried 'good and yous' or just 'good...hey don't forget that cupon!' s. Deep within these eyes resides the tired server from that loud inflated chain restaurant, the child wiggling their way out of the cart at Walmart while their caregiver ponders icecream. There is no limit to what exists in these eyes. The windows into the soul. Eyes are unable to lie. They can hide behind a falsely advertised brick wall, a hologram of perceived protection. Regardless, Truth permeates them for those who wish to see it. For our seeing has nothing to do with the eyes. I have not changed and thus become the recipient of these eyes which hold the universe. These eyes have always done so. However only now I choose to look into the mirror and see the unfamiliar. To look into what lies beyond the surface of my vision. Only now do I see what cannot be seen. Only now do the lines blur. Only now as I Lose Myself am I able to gain all there is. Only now when this reflection no longer means a set of rules, a string of memories, a story which is woven to create the fabric of who I thought I was and what I thought I was. Only now has the skin been peeled away, the lenses have been cleaned. Only now can I start to see what lies behind my expectations. Only now do these eyes reflect the depth of the internal in the sameness of the external. These eyes are not a window, they are a mirror of their own. These Eyes of which so much importance I had given no longer serve the same purpose.. they exist soley for their own enjoyment. They exist to gift The Marvelous experience of existence. These eyes I call mine do not require an opening or closing for the experience to exist. This unfamiliarity, although invoking a fear, is the greatest gift. It is the gift to become the reflection. It is the gift to be filled with the experience.
I am no more lost then I've ever been. I'm no more found them I've ever been. I am. What does that mean? And why must I know? An impossibly vast inquiry of which the 'I' which desires to know will perish, sacrificed to the obsessive awareness of fallacy, to make room for....well, I don't quite know yet.... perhaps I never will.