I never smile when I ought to and I never try when I want to and sometimes breaking down my emotions to a simple sense ends in unfinished sentences and blank looks or rather just stares and nothing more. I'm sorry for just walking by again and for never being able to figure out what you might be sorry for, hoping instantly for another chance that I again most certainly will miss on purpose. There are days I'm happy for rain covering up my glasses and me not being able to see your lips or eyes anymore. And in the morning when waking up from dreams I’m incapable to remember in detail I'm taking sips from my mug of coffee and I'm burning my tongue and I'm starting to think about what the rest of the day and the week and the month and the year could bring and what it might be like to see things not from two eyes but from yours and mine together at once.

Things like these: Sitting on our hands waiting for things to change. Complaining about life and the world and politics and exes and spilling beer from the pint in our hands. Shivering and not being able to distinguish between being cold and being nervous all the time. Being surrounded by rain because it's always raining and nothing ever seems to change: We always carry our traveler’s cards with us and our credit cards and we go grocery shopping and we go to the dry cleaner and we go to the pharmacist and we meet and we talk and we dance and we laugh at the pub and we cry when we're home in our beds because we don't sleep at night or because we dream of not being able to sleep at night and don't notice the difference anymore. We appreciate a good chat and we take buses as far as we have to. We try again but we still don't smile on the tube and we're afraid to ask for anything and so we get off and walk the streets with our hands in our pockets and stop by a café and buy coffee in cups and walk further with one hand in our pocket and try to make our way through the crowd to get a muffin from the pantry or something else from someplace else. We don't watch our money and we just want to live. We sometimes forget to eat and to drink and we wear the same clothes for longer than two days in a row and sometimes we forget where we were and we forget where we are and sometimes we just can’t remember what happened to us and to those around us within a very short period of time. But we still know and never forget how to behave in public places and we try to be considerate and aware of one another and we try not to be apathetic whenever it would be inappropriate. We never leave the house without a bag carrying headphones and a walkman and at least one tape and at least one book. And this means the world to the both of us.
But: having a look at all these things it doesn't matter anymore whether it's two eyes or four or six or eight. Whether it's family or friendship or love of any kind or whether it's hate. We are all just ourselves and we will always just be who we are and it will never depend on what or whom we're surrounded by but only on what we're carrying inside our hearts: It’s wishes and dreams and it’s all kinds of experiences and it won't matter if we remember all of those or if we forget: It still will always be the things forming our mind.

The more I’m exploring these wishes and dreams and experiences I’m starting to realize that I was only describing things that already happened and that I was only adding you to my story and that I was only filling your eyes with whatever mine have already seen. That you were not there with me. So I’m trying to accept that your eyes will always see everything different from mine and that your mind will always be made up from other influences and other ideas and other desires just like I will always be longing for my own individual scenery of things.
I’m starting to realize that sometimes I actually smile and that sometimes I actually try and that sometimes breaking down my emotions to a simple sense actually ends in a finished sentence and a finished sense rather than staring and nothing more: I miss you. And I will never stop missing you as long as I’m still looking for you, as long as you are everything and nothing at the same time, as long as you are not an individual and a personality and as long as I won’t let you be human; as long as you are more of a longing than anything else. You’re surreal and you’re a reflection of my desires that I’m projecting in everything and everyone I feel like wanting to see you in. I’m carrying you around with me like that tape and that book in my bag, like something I can always depend on – something I’ve chosen to preserve where it is. Something reliable and something controllable and therefore: something that will always depend on what I’m willing to let it be.

The eyes I wanted to share seeing through turn into a mirror of my desires; into nothing but what my own eyes wish to be confronted with. But being such they will never be able to fulfill the purpose I’m hoping for. They will never be able to satisfy any longing being made up by myself. Anything formed by my own mind will never have the possibility to act by itself or to create anything or to be independent and to turn into the one thing I actually would like to encounter: Something unexpected. It is for me to overcome the image I’ve created and to let your eyes be what they are: Not a mirror of my desires but one of your personality and of your individuality, eyes not to put expectations into but eyes to follow your own purpose rather than mine. It is for me to realize who you are and not who you could be for me and it is for me not to walk by again and to figure out instead not what your eyes might be reflecting but what’s their own story they might have to tell.