Here I stand, displayed and naked, placed on a pedestal for your enjoyment, with a date and a name at my feet, but you do not know me. The eyes that look at me have no concern for my flesh, are unmoved by my blood. Yet, if you could reach out and touch me, would you feel where I am from, would you sense the Earth in my bones? This glass separates us from communion. If only you could run your rough fingers over my curves and come to understand the blade that shaped me, perhaps I could come to know your hands and trust them. How I wish we could meet beyond this separation.
If we could know each other, would we envy one another less? Would I find peace in my stationary existence? Would you find reason to return your heart to the wild? I see it in your eyes, those empty eyes that seek my permanence, they yearn to know my kind of beauty. I am forever unmoved. Long after your skin withers, I will still be here performing this silent, still dance. You are fleeting, and ephemeral and I wonder what it feels like to be disappearing. I am captured. You are free. So why, dear stranger, do you spend your time looking at me?