Hey eyes tell the story of daddy issues and a drug addiction.
The room is half full of a variety of characters, everything from the prominent businessman to the seedy passer through.
Sprinkle in a few locals and the scene is set.
I wonder: What is going through her mind?
She is a Rachael Bilson look—alike so she lacks not for looks and yet here I find her on the little stage of a small run down strip club in the heart of Kansas.
The building has more potential as a car garage then the establishment it now inhabits, yet here it is a small dirty strip club.
Her eyes are beautiful yet hollow and I have to ask myself the question: Has she ever felt true love? Has she ever truly loved someone unconditionally or is the stage the only love she will ever know?
Everyone makes a story as we navigate between the date that signifies our birth and the one that marks our death.
What will be her story? Will there be anyone left that cares to tell about her? Will anyone even care?
If she has a child will it be brought into this World out of love, or a one night mishap?
Legacy is a powerful thing and to think that the one she leaves will be little to none is a sobering thought. But then as it always does the question arises: Am I so different?
I feel pity for her as I analyze her life without taking into consideration the lack of impact regarding my own.
What are my feats? What will those I leave behind say of me if anything at all?
Did I make the World a better place by bringing light and color into it, or like her do I merely take the stage for an evening of pleasure and self gratification, justifying my lack of achievements and mundane existence?
She looks in the mirror as she dances.
What does she see, what is she looking for?
Is this the highlight of her life? Does it take a plethora of wall length mirrors and small crowd to validate her existence, thus giving her self satisfaction?
Does she have the luxury to go home and feel unconditionally and truly loved? or is the stage her only glimpse at a mere illusion of love and happiness.
As I scrutinize this grim scene before me I catch myself in the glass.
My eyes are black and hollow as they look into my empty soul.
Am I her?
Do I have a stage as my only escape?
Is the small audience in my life the only sad testament to my existence?
Truth hits me in the face with her cold hard fist!
Truly this is me! a shadow if that, of the man I thought I was.
I am a prisoner of my own devices, a prisoner of the system I have surrendered my soul to.
As I get up to leave I steal a backward glance and realize: She is me and I am her.
Her time is mine and mine hers, and both of our time is almost over.