The Choice of Vision

January 6, 2014
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There’s a man at the train station every morning. He wears a thick black coat and thick black glasses. I watch him out of the window; mum lets me stand on the kitchen stool so that I can see through the glass. I can see his lonely eyes clearly, and he looks tired. I ask mum why he’s tired, and she says she doesn’t know why.

There’s still a man at the train station every morning. He wears a thick black coat and thick black glasses – his coat is patched, and the glasses are thicker than I remember. Mum says I don’t need to stand on the kitchen stool to see through the window anymore, so this time, I sit. I want to see his lonely eyes again to check if he still looks tired…but the glass is too foggy now. I ask mum why the glass is foggy, and she says she doesn’t know why.

There’s a man at the train station this morning. They’ve put him in a thick black box. There’s no window this time. I ask mum how she knows it’s him, and she says it’s because he has lonely eyes like mine.





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