Sweet Potato Haircut

I get tired of watching people watch me, with their creative eyes that decipher and decide which kind of person I am, which traits and attributes align into one succinctly worded category of human, and I get tired of watching myself mold, even if only slightly, to cast myself as the category human I could be to their eyes. I watch the day rise and swell and dim every day until I don’t, until I pass away into some Vague Away that comes in many murky understandings of heaven and continuation in the mind of small society, watching through fear filled eyes as life moves ominously onward, apathetically toward infinity. Not to say that my eyes aren’t filled with fear, but just that 

I hope to invite Fear inside my cavernous chest for tea,

 I hope to ask Fear about the worries and tendencies that warp my experience of aliveness 

and I hope to listen deeply, as a comforting friend, 

I hope to ask Fear how different life would be if Fear 

could simply watch the world move beyond my eyes 

and hear the rainfall outside my ears 

and reflect the passage of life as a mirror:

 the new friend in front of me 

and the wind in the trees 

and the uneventful day ahead

 resting just as they appear in the clear pools 

of what was once cloudy fear and can now be known as 

pure awareness.