Everyone you know was born with an armful of gifts, wrapped lovingly in placenta and shimmering exactly in the same way that wrapping paper gleams. Like all good gifts, these gifts are hand made or better; woven in blood and bone, strands of DNA curling up into the air with all the joy of a firecracker. You cried on that day; you were glowing and flooded with life.
It's hard to look back on that moment without feeling completely victorious.
I hope you don't mind me recounting these things to you; I'm so proud of you, if I knew you I would never stop smiling at you. I would be happily weeping all the time. I guess thats the problem with the things I've said to you: I've never met you, I never will.
I was born to see. It's sometimes troubling, sickening, or embarrassing. Sometimes it seems terrible. Sometimes it seems voyeuristic and perverse. I refuse to be ashamed of the gifts I was given, though. Imagine me: stunning and dreamlike, black hair ruffled expertly into the most birdlike shag, elegantly tall and poised. I reach one pale, unblemished hand up to my left and cover it with my long fingers, I open my mouth slightly but the words come clearly to your ears, "Thank you for this gift."
It's not hard to describe; anyone who has watched a movie knows the feeling: the wall of vision that looks in on the unaware. The angles aren't always beautiful, the people not so compelling, the plot impenetrable and going nowhere, but still, peering in on someone's story with no means or intention of altering it. Some people who star in these visions I know, most I have never met. Very few are reoccurring, except for you.
I've been seeing a lot of you lately, Ness, it makes me wonder why.