Case File

Your eyes feed immediately into your soul "they" say. Like the windows of a century home, within resides fantastical wonders beyond comprehension, undetected for a set of 

immeasurable time-slots.

Organs that locate light, sending signals along the optic nerve, visualizing my intentions. Distinguishing shapes and colours, allowing greater binocular perception, polarizing my inquiry. Inching closer, peering ever so closely, attempting to rescue many a thing, I am a hunter on a reconnaissance mission. 

Eyes, seemingly dark, complex optical systems without resolving power or a foreseeable end. A tunnel of uncertain corners, a horror for those among us afraid of unrepentant travel. Darkness is where the secrets hide "they" say. Of those, its true, you have many. Shifting in abandon, recklessly examining, your obscure eyes glide beyond the meeting point. The intent: concealment. Classified information intently trapped, you recoil at the unavoidable contact. Stinging embarrassment. Passionate disappointment. The crossroads momentarily averted. Pupils widen, baby blues bypass the intersection, preventing any imaginable casualty, whether physically injurious or psychologically undesirable.  "They" say shifting is the mark of an individual who is untrustworthy. Like a con-artist who constructs lies meant to disarm, you believe this strategy is a sure path to secure success. Your eyes, "they" say, speak volumes. As the dial turns, its true, your victim slowly amplifies the truth's audibility and deadens the tone of your lies. Initially translated into believed-to-be insecurities, I stare baffled beyond belief at my sheer stupidity. Before my once unbelieving eyes now stands defined verities not of my own making. As they move, I throw the net, capturing the only things I require in order to admit the light. Now, your casements, temporarily shut, are able to transparently grant access. Like a hunter, I excite at the thought of combating my prey. Paralyzing its limbs, numbing its senses. Weakening its efforts to wage a war of the minds, heightening its sense of defeat. Shaking after temporary distraction, I focus again on your eyes. As they darken, I insistently travel forward, unafraid of the looming light clearly visible at its root. Your eyes, reluctantly truthful, are fighting to protect your only key to salvation. Detective am I, poised to transcend the surface and resurrect  the unspoken evidence. I insist upon retrieving the dirt before conclusively conducting my investigation. Fanning through the files, I philosophically bag facts that include propositions presumed true, yet possibly negated if falsifiable. Defeated, you retract your initial statement. As the light becomes truth, unfortunate for you "I" say. Words, units of language consisting of combined clauses, are now insignificant. The physicality of silence is what I fear most for you. This lucid place, neighboured by the real, is where the truth screams out its loudest. You can never fog this place again. I am newly re-educated; no longer disoriented, no longer mystified, nevermore perplexed. Your words simply contextualize your prevarications, reflecting failed attempts at piercing holes. Complicated by a storm of manipulations, I take a final look at my case file. I warm to the thought of knowing that satisfaction will only come once I visualize your extermination. Lessons learnt. Partnerships axed. Trust is partially recuperating. Lifting the manila, binding it in leather, I begin to lay claim to cessation.