across the street. the luchesi’s.
father in his early forties. wife. boy. girl.
he provides the point of view. the world kept at a distance. sprinkled with isolated moments of connection, moments when he feels his feelings. a wave of joy upon an ocean of sadness. a choir of angels fending off the emptiness of deep space.
experience is contrast. inside and outside. hard and soft.
and for a golden moment the outside is shining, a miracle of clock making, all hands coming together at the stroke of noon. a split-second where there is no time, just a single arrow pointed to heaven.
one of the benefits of sensitivity, the uncommon splendor that vibrates through his being like an electric current. recognition. epiphany. the clarity that we’re all here for a purpose.
it seems so real.
but inside is a cold mirror. success and well-being and connection reflected back as anxiety and foreboding and disappointment. a magic trick in reverse, wonder replaced by anticipation.
when he’s dying a few weeks from now, this particular upwelling will stand out. both the embracing warmth of his love for his family, and the loneliness that makes it memorable. instead of a victory, it serves as a missed chance. a thought. nothing more. a wish that was never granted.
the cold mirror doesn’t care if it’s true.
the cold mirror doesn’t care that you got the answer right.
a feeling unshared is a feeling lost.
it might as well be typed on a burning page.
carved on a block of melting ice.
written on a crashing wave.
and then gone.