Muted Life

A pane of glass separates me from the world. Not literal, though sometimes I wish it were. Easier to explain. This is a different kind of barrier. A film over my senses. The vibrant shades of life muted, the clamor of voices distant, like listening to a symphony through thick walls. I know it's there. I can feel the vibrations, a faint tremor of feeling. But the melody, the full richness of experience, is lost to me.
 
I watch people—their easy laughter, their intertwined hands, the way they lean into conversations, fully present. I see it all, catalog it, analyze it. Words form in my mind: descriptions, metaphors, the raw material of my craft. But the feeling, the visceral connection, eludes me. I'm a scientist observing a phenomenon, not a participant in it.
 
This distance fuels my art in a way. I can dissect emotions, examine them under the microscope of my detached observation. I can weave words into intricate tapestries, exploring the human condition from a safe remove. But sometimes, I want to shatter the glass, to feel the sun on my skin, unfiltered. To laugh until tears stream down my face, genuinely, without the analytical part of my brain taking notes. To be present, truly present, in the messy, beautiful chaos of life.
 
But the glass remains. And I, the observer, remain on the other side.