contraction III

When you rub your eyes together, your vision blurs and the little lenses inside stick to your corneas so that they cannot escape into clarity. I am writing from this part of life, when my vision is so impaired by my own weakness that I struggle to put things back into perspective. Recently, I've begun a new phase of looking into people's eyes and searching, of breaking down the colors and rings and focusing in on some apparent passion hidden by action or expression. I remember the first time I sunk into my mother's stare and saw pure fear, pure worry. She was exhausted and nervous, feelings she was comfortable giving away to me, but her pupils betrayed any sense of calm she could contrive to comfort me. Shockingly, I was not afraid or saddened by her fear. I admit I felt a sense of power in that I could detach myself from her being for one moment and see her objectively for what she was. That there is fear in the eyes of those whom I love does not disturb me. Rather, it holds me closer to those people, my fellow world-inhabitants, and makes me feel as if my darker depths of emotion are justified and shared. I can feel closeness, I can yearn for it, but it is not my ultimate passion in this life. Now that I have found someone so similar to myself, someone who knows the exact word or touch to happy me, I feel a delight I've never known. I also feel a sadness pull at me from inside. It's my subconscious, it's an imaginary world, it's my voice, it's everything I have ever created for myself on my own. It is everything of which I am proud. The inner peace I experienced in solitude has been masked with the peace of mind that accompanies knowing one is comforted and secure by another physical being. Since I have spent a life alone for all my time, I find most safety there, most comfort. Now that I have found one special soul with whom I can share a life, I must relinquish that solitude now and then, and, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure I know how to do that. I could say I am misunderstood, but I am not and must realize the joy that lay within this idea. He holds me in his arms and under the sheets as though I were a barely-born child, sitting innocently in her mother's womb. This is the comfort, the security. However, there is no visible lifeline that connects us. He cannot physically jump into my head and feel his way into my mind and be one with my thoughts. He listens and responds perfectly, but I need to consult my own thoughts before proceeding. The easiest tune I could sing would be to just say I am complicated, but would that do it? Where is the meaning, the passion, the analysis in that one word? Taking deep breaths doesn't put it any more in perspective. I need the space to push back from my thoughts and see that I am a girl in a chair writing out ideas in words with a black ink pen. I see it now, but does the distinction between my solitude and social being make that wombed feeling more like being in an unending pit? Do you help me out or do I? You make me happier than a world's laughter, but there is still work to be done and there are still thoughts to be pondered. I often feel as if others cannot reciprocate the analysis of eyes for me, because I numb them when I am confused. This is the actual fear I feel: that others feel with truth and purity while my emotions vary from overwhelmed to contrived to numb. I love you more than I thought I ever could, but where and whom and how does that shape me? My vision crawls back into my eyes slowly, even if I have to take the contact lens out and clean it a few times before putting it back in my eye. Do these thoughts cleanse and clarify my mind, or are they just a tapping noise at the back of my feet that I can easily relinquish by removing my shoes?