There isn’t a capability of the right art in my body to convey the experience of sitting across a stranger you used to know.
A stranger that knows the in and outs of the shell of your old soul. The one that pins the remnants of the old you they’ve found in the trail you’ve left behind, onto your now new body.
Sitting across the stranger I used to know, I am earnestly looking for a sign of familiarity in the blur of a face that looks toward me; hoping to recognize something that might look like an old friend. Signs that relax my diaphragm into a moment of relief. I am intently listening to a droned out sound, hoping to hear a voice I might know. One I may have fallen asleep to late one night long ago. In every angle, every movement, every word, every breath, I am searching for something in a distant memory; squinting my eyes, trying to make a shape of the figure before me.
I am searching. Searching into the soul of this other. For something that might be there. Something that is trying to see me as much as I am trying to see it.
Stranger, we are remnants, yet we are whole. We are inner and outer body experiences. We are smiling and tearing, healing and hurting, and glueing our pieces simultaneously.
My wounds open and close in one sitting. And as I remain on the other side of a screen, I silently fall apart and replace the pieces to keep this smile on in case I scare off the soul I used to know before it makes itself out to me.