For years, I have lived the lives of others.
From the moment I wake, my body still under the spell of sleep, I reach for the glass through which I view others. My eyes are still cloudy from the sleep granules that tickle the corners. Rheum, as its more old-fashionedly known. I am in their world. It doesn’t take long. I consume the faces and bodies and words of the people I am not.
After eight uninterrupted hours, a crop of life stories has grown, and I am ready to reap. As I blink in the new morning, things play out the same. My hungry mind accommodates to the new things. My yearning cools, slowly, as I fill myself. Those lost hours, when I was in the dark and disconnected, are recaptured, quickly, as I scroll through lives.
These days, the people inside the looking glass can move, like the portraits and news photographs in Harry Potter. I notice that they always move so carelessly.
I am the farmer whose crop never never fails. It self-sustains and renews as I sleep. There is endless water. I know, and I know, and I look, and look.
And it is never enough.