Stained-glass Glasses

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     There are some things that I can see that I just do not have words to tell you. And these ghosts and fairies and goblins are invisible to your wide eyes. You strain those green, blue, hazel, brown, violet irises trying your hardest to see what I see; you just are not able to. It is impossible. Some people balk at that word; they say that everything under the sun is doable, or at least plausible, but I know they are wrong. You cannot see all that I see, no matter how hard you try. And do you want to know why? I will tell you, but you must keep it a secret: you are not wearing my glasses. My stained-glass glasses. I see the things in my own little world, and you can most likely see what is in your world. But we never see the exact same dragons and trolls. I propose that the true manner in which we choose our friends is based more on the colors of their glasses than much else. We like those that see things the same way, or rather in a similar way that we do. We float through life clinging to the people that we bump into with stained-glass glasses similar to our own. Some colors we choose, and others are handed to us, whether by life or death or otherwise. My glasses are stained with love, and art, and life, and music, and pain, and intellect, and change, and oh so much more. What are your stains? And what are you trying to force those that you hold most dear to see that they just flat out cannot?