prose

An Ode

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

     —But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

- William Wordsworth

In knowing your own flaws and in being acutely, excruciatingly aware of its very existence is looking into a mirror and seeing ugly, inflamed scars—invisible to everyone else. They are painful distractions, noticeable and prominent, ready to be shown to the rest of the world if you allow it.

But do you allow it? Why should you allow yourself to be vulnerable? They will laugh and point at you, anxious (as you are) and terrified (as you are) of what they see because they do not know what (who) you are. And how could they? They glance in rose-tinted glasses, too narrow-minded to understand and too self-invested to want to try.

So you give into yourself. You allow these unbearable scars to layer and layer one on top of the other until you can no longer see yourself in the mirror. Where is the beauty? Where is the empathy? Where is the forgiving eye?

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