We stare into space when we’re grieving. We read past the books in our hands, look past the screens, observe past the reality. We fix our gaze on the things beyond. We focus on the flame
when we cook, at the sky when we drive, at the ceiling when we sleep.
We fade out the food and focus on the china pattern. We hike up the mountain and stare into the oblivion from behind the trees. We drive uphill and look down at the shimmering city lights.
As if the lights are supposed to spell out the answers for us. As if the oblivion will send a saviour. As if the china patterns will decode into a sensible thought. As if the ceiling, the sky, the flame will open up the doors we have been locked out of. As if the things beyond can make the reality better. As if the universe cares. As if it’s paying attention. As if our hurt matters.
As if we are not just another among the many in the universe.