Have you ever looked through frosted glass,
and tried, with futility, to define
the outlines of a distant subject?
All my life I have done so.
My eyes are the icy glass of isolation:
They awaken me to empty human shells that,
Despite their sharp scents of smiles and summer,
Are uncoloured with a vague sense of fogginess.
For if you thought them geometrically similar,
Outwardly identical and biologically matching as I:
Just as you would not expect one to talk to animals,
I find myself equally inadequate and
isolated.
I yearn to smash: first, this glass I look through.
Then, the shells of the first body I find.
In hope that, the blood of non-isolation,
Of non-emptiness can wash and flood,
Drown and dissolve the despair
Of an inability to reach across,
Of living behind a glass,
Of fading
away.
All your life you have looked through this glass, and
All your life you have lived in this claustrophobia,
Smashing futilely.
The meaning here is so obscure, partly because of the nature of things discussed here and my inability to express it. I am trying here to talk about human isolation, and how the inability to understand anyone (their true personality, intentions, motives and feelings) is frustrating to me.