2003-03-22 2:09 p.m.
I have trouble keeping my eyes on the road—instead my eyes fix on the huge, dark, ancient trees flanking either side of this asphalt path. I want to be there with them, and I want to be like them, the oak trees. Their feet deeply rooted in earth; their fingers forever stretching out to the heavens and to one another, drinking in the boundless sky both day and night.
The oak trees don't avoid my gaze—a gaze of appreciation, a gaze of admiration, a gaze of envy. Sometimes I wish they would give me a wink—let me know that they fancy me, too. But, they appear unaffected or oblivious to my wide–eyed, passionate stare—the stare of a smitten beloved. Their indifference is a mixed blessing, allowing me the freedom to stare and stare and stare, photon reflections pouring into my eyes like the crispest of waterfalls.
And as I drove through the rolling, green hills and the carpet of farmlands here in Lake County, I realized something: I may enjoy looking at oak trees even more than looking at women.
I guess I might like looking at women more than oak trees if things were not they way they are between theirs and mine. But, the fact is that women don't want to be stared at by me. They get stared at all the time by people who wish to steal something from them. So they guard their reflections; the photons bouncing from their beings are protected like a scarce commodity.
Who can blame any woman for this, a fair and justified reaction? Anyone living in their situation would do the same. Each day so many people try to take something from them, and at the same time sneakily depositing unwanted baggage with them. The seconds, the minutes, the hours of this, they add up and soon multiply into a heavy burden that no person would want to bear.
I wish this would change soon, even in my lifetime. But I'm not hopeful. History shows that people don't change their ways too quickly—if ever.
So for now I will fill the pools of my eyes with the visions of oak trees—fill them until the sides spill over and wash over every part of me.
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