I’m feeling ambivalent about my invisibility today. Sometimes I do not wish to be seen. I prefer to skirt around the edges of life, looking in from the outside, not participating. I avoid people who are nice to me, people I know will say “hi” and attempt to engage me in conversation. I prefer to go unnoticed.


Other times, I ache to be seen. And when I am seen, I ache to be taken seriously, respected, heard. So often, I feel as though I am just something to be shoved aside to make room for more important things and people-the real people. It’s one of the saddest and most unnerving experiences to feel not-quite-real. Like a human chess piece to be moved about.

I long to be the mover, the speaker, the one who is doing. But I also long to escape, to leave, to no longer be in this world for I do not like it sometimes. It feels too big, too fast, too harsh, too cruel. I feel as though I’m being jostled along in a crowd of people when all I want to do is step aside and watch it all go by.

I’m not thick-skinned, I never have been. My emotions ride along the surface and a word or a glance can cut me like a knife. My life is richer for it but can be agonizing. My life is very full, sometimes painfully so. I see a lot of beauty, mostly in nature and children. I also see a lot of callousness that I cannot wrap my brain around.


People toss words around as if they were entirely inconsequential. They want their words to matter, but when they finally land with someone, they’re not willing to take any responsibility for the effect they may have.

Alice hastily replied; `at least–at least I mean what I say–that’s the same thing, you know.’ `Not the same thing a bit!’ said The Hatter.








It’s as if everyone were sword fighting blindly, just flailing about, hoping to land a blow but not wishing to see the resulting wound. Who are we if the only evidence of our being here is the destruction we leave in our wake? Empty candy wrappers, spots on the mirror and a dent in the couch cushions. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. The people bussing the tables and mopping the floors are only noticed when they’re NOT doing their jobs. So am I, a busser, a mopper, a waste basket. Invisible until I cease to clean consciences or mop souls–loved so long as I am useful, but not longer.




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