I am watching it all– them–through glass. Perhaps hardly noticeable, perhaps so distracting that it is the first characteristic anyone notices about me.
I see them. And they see me. But there is a barrier of separation between us. The florescent light of the room hits the glass and reflects off of it and into everyone’s eyes, annoyingly so.
If hardly noticeable, everyone becomes aware of the glass, at one point or another, when they shift and catch a glint of it, when I shift and it moves in sync with me. If so distracting, I see that distraction in their eyes and I cannot continue a conversation.
They are watching it all– me–through glass.
Are they aware that I know of the glass? Do they recognize the glass themselves, or do they simply wonder offhandedly what keeps shining in their eyes, what that odd streak in the air right in front of me is ?
We are existing with a plane of glass between us. Between the rest of the world and me. Them and I.
I put my hand up to it, first press my fingertips against the clean transparency and then my whole palm. The glass is cold and it is warm and it hurts, almost.
I push . I think I’m trying to break it. Make it as though it never existed. Make it so that my existence in a social setting does not harbor it into creation every time.
It accomplishes nothing, except to dirty the glass with my fingerprints.
Do they wonder why I am holding my palm up? Are they aware of what I am trying to do, or do they wonder, but are too polite to ask, too offput? Do they pity me, I wonder?
I am watching through glass stained with my handprint. The glass is much more obvious now. I wonder if I should clean it back to its shiny nontransparent transparency. I wonder if I should even try. If there’s any point, if that act would carry any merit.
It wouldn’t, I can answer without much thought. So I lean into it and use the glass to rest my temple.
HIVES 