What does it mean to see? Is it a yearning of the soul, a trick of reflective sunlight, an objective reality set before us? Or is it a prism, narrowed into a tube and refracted through the objects and gateways in our minds?
As you see the world, you simultaneously observe it, analyze and pass judgement, process and filter out - your body casting a wide net as your mind presses it all through cheesecloth, or fishnet, or a sieve. We attach meaning to every action, to the feelings coming through our senses - the synapses firing into chain reactions. We attach shame to misspeak and joy to good fortunes, tune in and out of frequencies of communication and air and energy.
We build monuments to our mental objects, the mind becomes the architect of our lives. This glob of muscle and electricity where we meet ourselves. But hardly ever ourselves. Instead we find a jungle of monoliths: the nightclubs, bomb shelters and fortresses of our interior world.
And still here we find the hands of our loved ones, our culture and our time. They have stirred the pot, marked the walls, sometimes laid the plans and manned the construction crews. Every inch not our own because we were busy sleeping.
It is our job to be the terrorists of our internally foreign countries. To be the Mikhail Gorbachev of our fractured tundra. It is the work of a life time, to live without judgement, to live through the senses; in short: to be human.