Living through Pinholes
Epoch
To Irene, perspective is relative.
What she sees is what she believes.
What she believes is what shapes her.
So when she's looking out of a small window from her small house in a small town, she believes that things are all right.
She doesn't give much thought to what’s out there, she doesn't think of other perspectives, because what she sees is what she believes.
What she believes is what shapes her.
Some days, Irene thinks everything might not be all right, because the dull colors in the sky seem to stand out a bit more, the fragments of unsettling dreams claw at the edges of her mind just a bit harder, and something inside her screams and shrieks to be let out and to see what’s beyond the pinhole of a window - until she remembers she's used to it; she's managed to quell the shrieks and muted longings for something better a long time ago.
It doesn’t affect her as much anymore.
She's used to it.
At least that’s what she believes. And what she believes is what shapes her.
Everything is all right.
Irene manages to make flowers out of weeds, a book out of a sentence, and a lifetime out of a moment.
Everything is all right.
That’s what she wants to believe, until she hears the yells of the young couple who rents out her basement, and the sobs of the sweet girl who cries for her boyfriend to stop drinking.
Irene wonders what they see, beyond windows that barely breach the surface. She wonders what they believe, and how it shapes them.
But she's used to it, so she pushes down the unneccessary curiosity.
What they see is not what she sees.
What they believe is not what she believes.
What shapes them is not what shapes her.
—
(This is the original version, which I had stuck in my notes for a very long time. I remember writing this on the train.)
Living through Pinholes
Perspective is relative.
What you see is what you believe.
What you believe is what shapes you.
When you’re looking out of a small window from your small house in a small town, you believe that things are all right.
You don't give much thought to what’s out there, you don’t think of other perspectives, because what you see is what you believe.
What you believe is what shapes you.
Some days, you don’t think everything is all right, because the dull colors in the sky seem to stand out a bit more, the fragments of unsettling dreams claw at the edges of you mind just a bit harder, and something inside you screams and shrieks to be let out and to see what’s beyond the pinhole of a window - until you remember you’re used to it, you managed to quell the shrieks and muted longings for something better a long time ago.
It doesn’t affect you as much anymore.
You’re used to it.
At least that’s what you believe. What you believe is what shapes you.
Everything is all right.
You manage to make flowers out of weeds, a book out of a sentence, a lifetime out of a moment.
Everything is all right.
That’s what you want to believe, until you hear the yells of the unfortunate couple who rents out your basement, and the weeping wails of the child they never wanted.
You wonder what they see, out of the windows that barely breach the surface. You wonder what they believe, and how it shapes them.
But you’re used to it, so you push down the unneccessary curiosity.
What they see is not what you see.
What they believe is not what you believe.
What shapes them is not what shapes you.
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