All we know of another
may be only what our illusions support;
if we want a savior, they become that
in our minds, even our cells;
if we need a lover, a mother,
a brother, best friend, they become that
as well, until, exhausted from the weight
of the world’s expectations,
a pin is pulled, the makeup slides off,
holy garments slip from slumped shoulders
and the beloved appears, just like us,
in their naked humanity.

If I barely know myself,
how is it I suppose I can know another,
save for my own projections;
we are complex, we are selfish,
the most noble among us gets angry,
even cruel in our way, and we jump
back stunned, barely able to witness
what materializes before astonished eyes;
we observe, questioning, not them
if we are lucky, but our own
perceptual distortions.

photo: bj, ‘Through the Looking Glass’ 2015

2014-11-22 08.06.42