Phantoms Essay, Research Paper

Phantoms

I’ve always been on the fringe of the social circle. Much like a donut,

the core of my peers seems a hollow, meaningless thing granted both

a name and recognition. I prefer the tangible–I always have. I see

my classmates, as little more than bleating phantoms. I hear them; I

feel them; I’m never quite sure I see them. Oh, I see their shells,

their armor, and their callous hides of lipstick and eye shadow–but I

can’t think of a single person I’ve ever truly laid eyes on. My sense of

life is that I am my own truth, my own soul–for how can I be

influenced by someone that doesn’t truly exist? Am I the sole

individual amidst a populace of bodies? It cannot be so, yet “I think,

therefore I am,” and I often feel as though I am the only one who

truly does think.

The truth is glaringly painful when one pulls the wool from over his

eyes: people are forever seeking enlightenment. The irony is that

most can’t handle the light they so vehemently seek. Instead of

piercing the thick veil of shadows that is their existence, they blind

themselves–desperate humans unwittingly emulating a modern day

?dipus. Darkness is something of an anesthetic. The blush on one’s

cheeks and the clothes on one’s body mean so very little when no

one can see her, and even less when she can’t see herself. I’m

cursed with the ability to see the shadows people don like worn out

overcoats they can’t bear to throw away, but unable to do anything

about it. I’ve cast off my clinging shadow, or perhaps I’ve merely

strengthened it to a point where I merely think I’ve conquered it.

Nevertheless, I stand staunchly by the former idea; I believe my

intelligence and spirituality to be richer since my revelation. That

notwithstanding, to view these shades without color is a truly painful

experience.

I often ask myself whether I’d be better off without the stigma of this

quasi-enlightenment upon my soul. Shall I be denied my shadowy

delights simply because I’ve caught a glimpse of the light? It burns, it

sears, and every waking hour is spent, in part, on pondering this

double-edged truth which I both desire and despise. Still, I cannot

truly abhor it. I can only thank whatever allowed me a glimpse

beyond the blinders my peers seem to covet. The alleys, side streets,

and the tantalizing delights that a glance away from the beaten path

offer go unheeded by the great mass of men. I would prefer my ideals

decreed sickly and shot as a once proud horse might be, than to

wallow in my own numinous filth. To submit is to accept something

other than who I am, the alternative lifestyle being countless years

of trudging down a road until the end of my days, growing petulant

and weary, and never to seeing the forest for the trees, much less

the forest itself.

It’s ironic how this enlightenment inevitably leads to more enigmas. I

now see beyond the singular, and comprehend the reason as opposed

to the action. How is it, then, my understanding of human nature

varies inversely to the number of questions I have about it? I wonder,

for every tear I see upon the face of the girl who’d hoped to get that

“A,” and for every fist thrown over the empty disputes that abound

all about me, what drives these hollow men and women to act as

they do? I question the sort of shadowy puppet strings these people

affix to their limbs–these blind ghosts that cry over a red pen and

batter each other over nothing at all. Is this truly what we

are–steely shells, tempered with blazing ignorance, and saturated by

nothing but good intentions? In this regard, my thoughts help keep

me one step ahead of society, and allow me the sense to avoid its

trappings. I will not shed tears over something I attempted

wholeheartedly; I will not strike a person if words can accomplish the

same end. This is the gift I have been given, and to close my eyes

against the glaring sun would be nothing less than ignorant.

I’m undecided whether the shadows of my mind have been cleared, or

whether I’m merely a blinded dupe who believes herself to be the only

substantial figure amidst a sea of specters. I cannot determine this,

and I likely never will–still, the very idea that I understand that I

may be blinded sets me further apart from others than anything else I

can fathom. Have I found that uncut diamond–that raw mass of

knowledge that will someday gleam as a precious stone? Or, have I

found a deceptive piece of glass that will shatter when I attempt to

refine it?

Enigmas. Nothing more than enigmas.