An irrational, unbearable fascination. The compulsion to look into somebody’s eyes, the screen through which our perception of somebody is distorted whilst we experience the paradoxically intense desire to know them, to analyse the structure of their persona, every grain composing their skin, slopes at the peak of an ear, every web of their iris whilst we are blinded by Oxytocin and overwhelmed by our own sensations, unable to look through the souvenir memories our senses have picked. The haze is textured like the skin of another on the other side of a window in the early morning sun, scented with the sweetness of the signature in a pheromone glow. A paradox of being within proximity, yet not being aware of things underneath our very nose.

How are we so fascinated by these distortions? How do we wish to see that which is obscured by our own very desire to see it? For we know…why. I do not wish to state the obvious. Albeit film fades at the rate of sentimentality. Sentimentality’s life supply fades at the rate of mystery’s half-life in a memory. There is no elegance, for thought and feeling are not in a symbiotic union. The haze is beautiful, for it creates a joyous simplicity. And it is all irrelevant once we realise we cue for a ride in the train of experience, of predictable reactivity.