The Questionable Look
There is this look that you get every time your eyes find me, and I cannot figure it out. Time and again, I see you stare at me and I try to make sense of it. It is never quite the same, but the one thing that is consistent, is the ever growing puzzle it presents to me.
Do you like me, disapprove of me, love me, hate me? Do you want me, need me, dream about me? Are you trying to understand me, accept me, reject me? Am I disappointing you or are you proud of me? Am I who you want me to be, or do you want to change me? Would you give me a chance to prove to you that I am not who you’d hate for me to be? Do you find me pretty, ugly, irritating, intellectual, fascinating, forgettable, special or expendable?
These are but a few questions that run through my mind all at once when I catch you giving me even a passing glance. I feel constantly judged by you, but I have yet to muster up the courage to ask what your scorecard would reveal. Your looks pins me to the pounding of my own heart, binding me to the fear of finding out the truth behind that expression.
When I try and really look back at you, it is like you intentionally try to confuse me, cheating me out of knowing .Sometimes I think that you are hiding all the answers to life. Other times I think you are simply trying to confuse me for confusion’s sake.
Dear Universe, what look is that that I find on the faces of countless strangers every day? Would you give me a hint? Some nod that I am doing okay? Some affirmation that the path I am leading my life down is not totally without reward. Dear Life, am I doing it right? Am I making sense? Am I fulfilling the purpose you have in store for me? Or am I merely wasting time waiting for a look that will never come?
You look at me and for a split second, I think I see an almost honest smile form on your lips. And then, as soon as it was there, it was not. I scramble frantically day in and day out for that small sign of acceptance. That feeling that I belong, that my worth is not bypassed, that I am not forgotten, forgettable, that I at the very least had some impact, that at some basic level I MEAN something.
Some days I wish you would not look at me. Some days I wish I was invisible to the naked eye of scrutiny, above it all, yet below the radar. Some days I wish I would stand out and be noticed. That who I am will be recognised for all the right reasons. But the looks never end, and so the only thing I wish for is the courage to face you dead on, to not look away, to not miss a single moment. To confidently believe that if I allow you to gawk at my awkwardness for long enough, you will find the me deep within and accept that. Why am so I afraid of your look? Because if you look at me for long enough, you may find out who I am, and who I am is all that I have to offer. And what if that is never good enough?