I'm looking for my voice. Well, i'm not quite sure i can call it mine yet, considering i've never seen or heard it. I've never touched it and I've certainly never considered it significant until now. Before now I blended in backgrounds and felt eager to lend my hands and heart to the voice of another. Feeding off of them like a parasite. Absorbing information and regurgitating it. But now, I'm in free fall. It's not like before. I stand on calf legs and I'm covered in vernix. The waxy white goo babies arrive bundled in like a neat and sticky package. Ten fingers, ten toes and vernix caseosa. I've come to realize it's quite essential to my daily stirrings and schedules and I've come to realize I could fall into obscurity without it. Seeping further and further behind the scenes like moisture through a cheesecloth. It's a tempting option and I'm not going to pretend that it's not because obscurity does indeed have the best views. Christ the redeemer seen from the bus station in the outskirts of Rio. tiny and diminished in importance. a couple, in love as seen through their golden window at night. Only I know the glowy special window, delicate like a portrait. It's positively a work of art. Las Meninas of Velazquez- the watcher watching the watcher. The freeze frame of something that's not mine, but I have it, a stolen moment. Obscurity makes me feel I know something everyone else doesn't. Dear reader, I have changed lanes and exited the freeway, no longer in search of my voice as I am quite content with my eyes. Thank you kindly for your brief time and for considering the interpretations of my vigilant eyes.