searching
i'm searching for something, and i don't know what it is. i don't think i even knew i was searching, i don't think i'm sure even now. i think i am looking for something, and somehow i keep trying things, always searching, never knowing but always trying to find that one thing.. maybe that one thing that won't break, the one thing that lasts forever. i think that is what i have been doing, searching. maybe i really have been searching my whole life, and when each thing falls thru i look again. maybe i'm searching all the time.
i am a man with too many pairs of glasses, each pair with a different perscription. each day the man gets up and walks across his broken frames and lenses, groping slowly untill his hand rests upon a smooth and uneven object; without glasses he sees with his hands. this man wears a different pair each day, hour by hour, and can never find the pair he had on before, because everything is warped differently with the new perscription, unfamilliar. he adjusts to this new view, maybe it is a pair he had on before, but he can't be sure for he has only seen the pair he has on thru other lenses, and he can't know which ones for the warping shifts with every change. he screams in frusteration, crys and claws at his eyes, only to hear shouts of anger from his neighbors. he leaves his windows open so maybe a passerby will stop and find the right pair of glasses for him. a few people stopped by his window, but the man was at a loss for what to tell them to look for. most often, however, his noise and stumbleings berave the neighbors, who think he should stick with a pair of glasses and move on. the neighbors think the man is a fool, but it doesn't help him see. the man closed his windows, but the dark was opressive and the air grew stale, worst of all however was the man's loss of hope that someone would stop, somehow know all about frames, for without correct vision the man could not find help, and if his vision was correct he wouldn't need help. he opened his windows once again, and the neighbors threw rocks in. each day the man gets up and walks across his broken frames and lenses, groping slowly untill his hand rests upon a smooth and uneven object; without glasses he sees with his hands.
i ddn't mean to write that, it just happened. the end.