Looking In, Looking Out - David Lorefield

i peer through the glass and scan the room. Familiar objects flash across my vision, tempting me to reach for their well-known touch. The room is well lit – brighter than i would like - and i suddenly feel irrationally exposed; vulnerable to the glare of the lamp in the corner. i have to control myself so as not to flinch.

he is there, as always, sitting at the desk staring intensely at the screen in front of him. i pity him his shallow existence with its drudgery and routine. i have known him for so long now; the familiarity settles on me like a mantle on a dark, damp night. i know his every thought, every emotion and every desire. Yes, i pity him. his world will never be as rich as my own; so full of wonder and beauty. Poor boy.

he types on his keyboard. I see his fingers as they type and I know what he is saying; who he is talking to. he doesn’t know that i watch; a voyeur, a peeping tom constantly monitoring his actions, reading his thoughts and mining his psyche. I don’t always watch from here – i have a number of vantage points where i can remain perfectly concealed; secluded and yet seeing all.

he is talking to Her again. i don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t want the attention of such a Lady. But i know just how hopeless this venture is. i see the doom approaching slowly, surely from over the horizon, knowing that no force will stop it and that in the end there will be more sorrow that he can bear. he should abandon Her and return to his own life, his own world. he doesn’t have a place in Hers. Move on, my friend, before it is too late.

If only he knew; if only he realized. he cannot hold Her the way i can. He cannot sit under the tree and caress Her face or hold Her tightly in his arms. He is not of this world; not of the real world. And all the time he spends talking to Her, pleading with Her, will never allow him to cross from his stark reality into this wonderland.

So here i kneel before Her at The Dominion, peering out through the glass, straight into the face of that pale imitation of me.

Poor boy – This is Real Life!