You’re Not Invisible to Me…

In some way, each of us is invisible.  We walk through life, passing one another on the streets and smiling at empty faces.  We don’t, we can’t remember all the faces we pass throughout the .  We smile and forget.  It’s part of who we are, it’s part of being human. 

We are invisible because we are not remembered. 

We tell people “I Love You,” give them hugs, show them that they are beautiful (when necessary, we use words), and we attempt to live like there is no tomorrow.  It’s all an attempt to be remembered.  In an attempt to no longer be invisible to those around us.

Invisible.  Unseen.  Unnoticed.  Unloved.  Or forgetting that someone does love us.

We seem to do all sorts of stupid things to get noticed.  We jump out of airplanes.  We go on crazy adventures.  We chase storms and the chaos of our lives.  Have relationships with one another.  Have sex.  Do drugs.  Put ourselves in dangerous positions.

I have NOT done everything in the previously stated list.  Just wanted to make that clear so there wasn’t any misunderstanding. 
:::END NOTE:::

We hear of too many stories of young men and women seeking out attention.  They are shouting at us, and yet our blind eyes cannot see until it’s too late. Their scars tell the story of their actions, invisible to those around them. 

I was once invisible. It felt as if nobody could see me or noticed what I did.  And I attempted to find who I was in the silence of the night. 

While reading Joy Harjo’s memoire Crazy Brave I came across a passage that hit close to home for myself and reflects the emotions of many young artists:

I marked myself once with a knife.  I was disappearing into the adolescent sea of rage and destruction.  The mark of pain assured me of my own reality.  The cut could speak.  It had a voice that cried out when I could not make a sound in my defense.  I never made such a mark again.  Instead I chose to slash art into canvas, pencil marks onto paper, and when I could no longer carry the burden of history, I found other openings.  I found stories.

I have a tattoo on my wrist (we live, we love) to remind me to open my eyes to those around me.  I’ve made it a personal mission several years ago to remind those around me that they are loved, to tell them that they are beautiful. 

I found a different path to gain attention.  I found a way to shout into the endless void of silence that surrounds us.  For a time, I found poetry.  I found music.  I found art.  And I too have come full circle and found writing. 

We find ways to force people to see us.  We find ways to no longer be unseen, invisible.  We cut and dye our hair.  We dress in crazy fashions and outfits to stand out.  We do stupid things to gain attention (run away from those who love us, find adventure, and/or put ourselves in harms way).  We find a voice through the arts (creative writing, music, visual arts, and theater). 

Some actions cause harm.  Others heal.  They all speak out to be seen. 

God Bless and PEACE


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