Something about children…

I search for something I can recognize in people. Maybe I’m looking for myself. I want that close, open contact – that smiling look in the eye – that makes me believe I’m understood. I’m hoping for something. I want to feel loved. I want to feel I belong.

But I’m not attached; not truly connected. My conversations are hopeful attempts to be heard, but I see in your eyes you’re talking to the host of other people you’ve learned to expect fromĀ  before me.

It’s hard to remember I didn’t create the world. It’s tough to think I’ve lived and will die here without really having anything to do with it. I could have been a frog.

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