I walk into my office and, before sitting down on my chair, see the cotton-candy stuffing pushing through the back of the worn out cushion. The sun shines through the window creating a rectangle of light on the chipped hardwood floor–it is a dazzling playground where certain shadows frolic like children while others watch dutifully over them like guardians. The white lace curtains flaunt their grace by moving delicately with the breeze. 

I wonder if it is my purpose to purposelessly observe the details in life that pass others by unnoticed.  I am suddenly overtaken by a desire to be seen; a longing to hear someone say, “You are as alive to me as the cushion and the curtains and light and the shadows are to you! Let me read what I have written about you!”

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