I love to watch faces. To see them cry in the sun, or smile in the moonlight. I am truly fascinated by the human form, but it is the face that steals my focus. To listen to every expression of the face is something I love to do. And many times, when talking with someone, I may miss the words completely, but their face makes the meaning clear as day.
Many cannot listen with their ears, which is bad enough. But most are incapable of listening with their eyes. That is a shame. Listening to the lines running deep, shades of skin, glistening eyes staring back. It is all there to see.
Part of me wishes it were possible to poke into the senses of other people through their eyes, and fully feel what they are experiencing. To feel the love, hate, anger, happiness, and see what it is so many billions of people suffer over. But none of that ever comes to me. It is only ever human beings. Sitting. Talking. Listening. Looking. Lines running deep.
I take many photos of my face (although I never post them). I do not know why I do this. I am not particularly fascinated with it, and I cannot say there is anything at all I hope to find there.
Yet I keep doing it.
Whenever I see myself in the mirror, or in a photo, it is in some way like looking at a newly made map of a continent surveyed and explored for the very first time. Excitement and possibility. Unknown and dangerous. There are no memories or experiences of the thing.
This face is always with me, and carries absolutely nothing along with it.
And that never seems to change