You dwell in ominous splendor, appear like a riveting Stephen King mystery even, to several pairs of eyes wondering what your story could possibly entail. With secret smiles and short stares, the universe revolves around the beauty that is what everyone assumes you to be.

At least that is how you feel.

Talk shortly to a face you will never recognize again about the mundane lifestyles you both share, from the lack of excitement of the nine-to-five life to the spirituality in a hockey game. Yes, it is your world but not in even the slightest bit of a nutshell. It is just the thoughts that you never valued, the white crystals you mistook for diamonds once but did not care to savor. Oh what a mystery you are. Have you ever looked into the spectrum of pools of strangers and just know that their hearts no longer beat to the rhythm of life? Can you tell this by the way they stare at the scenery zooming past? Is it written in the folds of their skin, mapping out their pain and despair like a children’s storybook?

As we question their story, and wonder endlessly about what is the source of their existence, do we stop to think if anybody can read who we are?