What is it to feel these invisble tethers that connect us as people?
The weight of each heart and soul as tangible as any object?
I wouldn't know.
I create the illusion of that touch;
Pulling joy from the paintings I can only observe,
As badly as I may want to plant myself among those brush strokes.
Thousand worded photographs can't capture me,
Because I don't exist.
I am omnipresent,
A quiet observer to these passions that phase through my hollow soul.
There is no worse "feeling" than a falsified bond.
To be in the throws of anothers being,
and not be able to comprehend what is to touch their mind, their body.
A spirit can not contact the living.
So am I dead?
Better yet, what is it to be alive?
The answers slip from my fading grasp on reality.
