You see the past in your minds eye. You see 'you' - a constant you who has always been the same in some ways yet a whole another person in some others. One perhaps, who refuses to grow up, and an assortment of others who have grown a lot through their many experiences; some good, some bad, some tragic, some magic... Every little moment, large or tiny in its reality, left a mark on your person that is visible to some who look deep while at the same time entirely non existent to those who simply do not care. There is much noise all around our being, all through the yesterdays on to today; recent or aged. This noise has become tepid with time, blanched in its current state as if all that is transpiring, is being so on a parallel existence that is untouched by your real physical self of the very now. Perhaps to understand this, one would need to exist in such ''a limbo'' -or- ''versatile limbos'' to actually fathom a state thus. A black and white like basic reel, with or without static in the background, plays the events out at random or tandem. The goods and bads in their surreal existence, are like an essence that tickles the senses in accordance to their nature; pleasant to all that exists in between it and downright unbearable. When beaded together to form a chain of memories preserved in our core, a potpourri of -some snippets-some sequels- get stored for later retrieval, as and when life requires it of us. In all entirety, we are made up of this potpourri and blanched noise, when we look at the reflection of who we are, as we exist today. When I see me -and I mean really look at the old plus new me- from the outside and inside, I see a shell that exists to please others in how primped it is, or a warm body that exists to live. The vacant parts that come across as unpretty, held within them a more loving heart (I feel now) when I compare them to the relatively more pleasing to the eyes form that is so perceived (more often so now), I find them sort of aching, wanting and hollow on the inside (tired even). Makes me wonder what really it is that makes ''some'' see the same picture of a person (me?) as pretty, all its other myriads, or otherwise.
Some see pretty
Some see Blah
Some see witty
Some others Booh and Baah
It all matters little when you exist in this pseudo happy state of potpourri and blanched noise.