The Observer

March 19, 2011
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I gaze up at you, watching in awe as you work. The lights glow behind you, seeming to outline your body in a colorful haze. You are so focused. So seemingly unaware of everything around you. To you, I am not here right now. No one is.
He stands in his usual spot: beside you. It seems he is more yours now than ever before. He watches you, follows you, tries his best to mimic your every move. You know you are his idol. You know all he wants is to be like you. You are wrong. He doesn't want to be like you. He has no desire to be your shadow. He has lived like that his whole life, and no longer wishes to continue. No, as he watches you, follows you, he pushes himself one step further; striving not to be like you, as your equal, but to be better, as your superior. He has really already caught up to you. Now he wishes to pass you. And he will. He is your competitor.
She supports you. For the longest time, you wanted her. She turned you away, but feels as if she owes you. She is your sidekick now - your partner in crime - feeling as if this is the only way to repay the debt she owes you. Yet now, as she spends more and more time with you, she feels something more for you. Something she wishes she had felt long before. She would never tell you, because she has already turned you down, and to ask for you back now would be humiliating. But she can still be your supporter. Now, not so much out of obligation, but because she truly does wish to be with you. She is your past.
Another like her stands a ways back. You stole her. An acquired prize. But she is unsupportive. Her face holds no expression of pleasure as she blinks at you from under her soft dark hair. You aren't worried, though. You can make it up to her afterward. She is always forgiving when it comes to you. She is your present.
They cheer for you, almost with as much passion as I. They say they know you. That they can choose whether or not to like you based on what they are told about you. Most don't care about your talent. Most aren't even aware of it. They obsess over your looks: the curls in your hair, the color of your eyes, the muscles that ripple down your arms. They have posters of you. But they know nothing of your true work.
You look up from your work to meet my gaze. Now you realize, there are others around you, all watching you work. I am here, too. You see that. Why are you here, though? That question holds itself in your crystal blue eyes, and I stare straight back into them, relaying my answer. Unlike your competitor, I have no wish to be better than you in any way. That is not my purpose. Unlike your past, I am here now. I have to be. Unlike your present, I will be here later. I need to be. Unlike your fans, I do know you, for that is the part I play. I am here to watch you. To understand you. To learn about every aspect of your life. I am your observer.

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