You would never understand how I see the world. You would never understand why I see it like I do. You can’t understand a person’s sight unless you see through their eyes yourself, and such things are impossible. All that you think you know is different where I live; everything you think you see is different where I am. I live inside my head and that is where I am. That is where I like to be.
I sit here on this bench; you can see me as you wait for the train to pull in. I am as real as the man who sits beside me with his suit and tie clean and wrinkleless. I am as real to him as he is to you, but neither of you are real to me. I see you, but I don’t.
I watch your coat ripple as the train pulls in and you turn to face your ride, taking your gaze off of me. You can’t see me, but I can see you, but then again, I don’t. I don’t see the real you, I simply see what I have made you out to be. Everyone does it; we all picture people and places in different shades that we choose to see. You think you understand now, but you don’t.
I am not quite like you, you who stands in the midst of a moving crowd that waits to board the train. Your eyes are focused on the doors as they open and you step in. When you sit down on the row of beat up seats you look up and meet my eyes as I take my place. You smile politely and I smile back; you believe I am like any other passenger. You are wrong.
When I look up at you, I do not see you; I see a young man with worn eyes and a scared face, nervously pale hands clenched in his lap. Your leather jacket is tattered and over your head you wear a black aviator cap; when I look up at the train wall behind you it is vandalized beyond recognition with graffiti. We are on our way to fight, the trenches is where this train takes us.
You might ask me why it is I perceive you in such a way, because you certainly are not dressed in such a way. Your neatly-smoothed, black coat shows no signs of deterioration and your head wears nothing but your own hair. You would tell me as well that you are in no way nervous or tired; you are, in fact, quite alert and confidant.
Maybe you understand now; I see you yet I don’t. It is the same every day. I wake up to two worlds. There is this world’s sad color and then the spontaneous place of my own thoughts as if I were always day dreaming my own fantasies. Morning to night, they are always with me; they never leave and they never let me take control.
What would you do if you woke up every morning to live in two worlds, with the people you saw and the places you went always twisted into something else? Would you prefer what is like a dream to what is real? Do you understand now what I have said before? Can you wrap your mind around it? No, you can’t. You can’t understand what I see or how I live. You are not what I am. You are not where I am. You would never understand how I see the world, because I am me and you are you. Your eyes are not mine.
As I take a step off the train, you watch me. When you look up past me you see a subway station, filled with waiting people. It’s light is bright shining on you, and its pale walls surround you. You see what I see, but I see something else. As we part ways, leaving the station, you face the concrete networks of the city, your shoes slapping on the sidewalk, your briefcase in your hand. I face the looming branches of a forest, my feet making soft imprints in the soil, a gun in my hand.