I stand here,
right in your view,
and you look right through me.
Is there something wrong,
or can't you see me?
Don't you hear my voice
calling out to you?
Are you ignoring me?
Is there something I've done wrong?
I wave my hand in front of your face,
desperate for attention,
and you go on pretending that
I'm not standing here!
I become frustrated.
Why are you acting like this?
Angry, I scream,
and you don't notice a thing.
I try to strike your face -
I am enraged now -
but my hand goes right through you.
Quickly, I pull my hand back,
how did such a thing happen?
Full of shock, exasperated,
I don't know how it was done.
Confused, I ask myself,
"What had just occurred?
Am I not real,
am I figment of your imagination?"
My head is reeling
with my doubt,
and I'm angry that I'm invisible.
"No," I decide,
"I must exist!
How else could I be here?"
That seems true,
but I'm not sure,
and I begin to ponder.
I try again,
and the same thing
happens once more.
"Hello!" I shout at you,
"I am here, too!
I know that you can't see me.
I know that you can't hear or feel,
but do you notice my emotion,
my anger and my frustration?"
You do nothing -
the same thing repeated over again.
"I'm not air,"
I say to you, "I'm alive!"
Now the realization hits me,
a lot like a sack of bricks.
"Oh, wait." I recollect thoughtfully,
"I just remembered that. . .
I'm not."
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