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I know it's not Thursday, thank you.

I know it's not Thursday, thank you.

Did you ever really look into someone's eyes? I mean, look deep into them as if they were the ocean and you were trying to see the bottom. I look into the eyes of strangers. When the old, toothless man in the parking lot approaches me with outstretched hands and asks for a dime or a cigarette or snack, I look into his eyes. I try to see what he sees, to know what he knows. Our eyes meet and latch on and for a second I can see through him and into him and it really doesn't take much to know that he is a sad man, but in those eyes, the sadness is much deeper. It's a resignation. I give him a dollar because that is all I have stuffed into my coat pocket and he mumbles a toothless thanks and walks away.

I think about his eyes later. I think about the stories that lay behind those eyes and the thoughts that probably plague him as he sleeps each night on a bed made of sidewalk and newspaper.

When I go to sleep that night in my comfortable bed with two blankets and four pillows and arms wrapped around me, it's his eyes I see. I dream that his eyes are huge like a planet and they dance above my head, mingling with stars and comets. There is no face, no toothless, thankful man. Just his eyes.

I am balancing myself on top of one of his eyes, and the eye keeps spinning like ball under my feet. I am running in place, the eye moving ever faster underneath me, the iris coming under my feet every few seconds. I look down, wanting to stare into it and find out its secrets and its stories but I lose my balance and go flying off into space, doing an interstellar gymnastics routine of tumbles and flips and handstands. I land on the ground, and even though I can't see that's it's the ground because of the darkness, I know the familiar feel of concrete and newspapers. I lay there, covered in the New York Daily News and the pebbles come loose from the sidewalk and scrape my hand as I try to sleep. I look up at the sky and there are the eyes, and the eyes have gained mouths and they are laughing. Laughing at me and my bed and laughing most of all at my desire to know what is inside them.

I lay on the sidewalk, cold and hungry and wanting those eyes to stop looking at me. To stop laughing at me. I close my own eyes, try and sleep but a shadow crosses over me. I look up and see the man, the toothless, thankful man, and he has no eyes. His sockets lay cold and bare and he takes my hands and holds my fingers up to the empty holes and nods his head. I stand up and pull the eyes out of the sky and put them back in the sockets from where they came. He mumbles a toothless thanks and walks away.

(this dream and others like it now playing at soul illustrations)


Perhaps you should talk to the doctor about lowering your Paxil dosage. I only dream like that after a night of tequila shots and pot.

I dream like that every night. Always have. I'm hoping not to at this point.

One of the hardest things to do is to look into the eyes of someone who has lost everything, to see that despair. I have the hardest time looking into the eyes of beggars that I meet on the street. It saddens me to the very core of my being every time I do. I don't think I could deal with having dreams like those every night. Hope you have happier warmer dreams tonight Michele.

I don't have anything intelligent or witty to say here -- but I can say I'm thinking of you and hope things get easier soon! I can feel your pain and fear in your writing lately and I hope your brain is able to let you take a breather...

Obviously, not having anything witty or intelligent to say never stops me. I do wish you better days, though.

Nah--it may not be the Paxil; you may just be a Sensitive!
I always look into stranger's eyes, too; in fact I can't talk to people if I'm wearing sunglasses...I have to take them off.
But if your energy is overextended and dissipated (and it sounds like yours might me, momentarily), looking into stranger's eyes like that can be draining!

Screw witty. I'll just say that that was a beautiful piece of writing.

Hey! Ahem. Um. Dream Blog. Remember? Mm.