It's good to be alone. You stand here in your room. |
There's a window. It is open. The curtains are drawn apart. Light pours in from outside. Birds are singing. |
You're standing by the window. Looking at a photograph that you hold in your hands. The light is good for you, they say. |
In the bright light. |
Their image is blurry but you can map out every single detail |
of their faces. |
You used to go up so close to them and loved looking into one of their eyes to catch your own reflection in it. |
You liked that you're a a part of them, contained in that lil' spherical room. |
You stopped doing this when you grew older. You felt embarrassed by the closeness. |
And the older you grew, the further you kept away from them. |
From all the people that you've once held so close to you, |
that you've tried so hard to see yourself in each one of them. |
It is good to be alone. You stand here, in your room. Looking at a photograph that you hold in your hands. |
Light pours in from outside the window. |
Lately, you're having problems with your vision. Things go out of focus when you bring them too close to your eyes. |
Your draw the curtains shut. It is all too much, too close, too bright. |
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