Others by John Grey


I don’t know these people.
We’re different.
Even when we speak to each other,
we’re total strangers,

before and after.
We’re like snowflakes.
They may glide down
the same window pane together

but no two are identical,
none need any other to exist.
I work beside some of them.

I see others often
in my day-to-day existence.
A few are family.
Others I’ve hung out with for years.

But my thinking
is the true conversation
and they don’t hear it.
It’s where I’m who I really am

and they can’t see it.
There’s some I even love
and willingly confess that to.
But to love someone

is to love something
without ever knowing what it is.
Some say they love me in return.
Only I know what they’re loving.

by John Grey

Editor’s Note: In this poem, Descartes’ philosophy is extended to explore the essential isolation of self-awareness, and the persistence of love regardless of this probable solitude.

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