complexes

I wonder we even begin to expect to be shown the true faces of our neighbors and our friends. We have been expertly trained to plaster our masks, and magic marker our holes.
Are your eyes truly the gray of the Seaside? Is the pigment of your skin like the bark by the Willowbrook, the softness off your touch like the blades of grass at Parkside Grove?
I question how we expect to be true in our appearances, when the very complexes we hone, we live, we advertise,
are dilapidated buildings, missing windows and broken floorboards.
We live inside the sea, the tree, and sleep in what we call the Mountain Haven;
but calling the ocean the desert, does not make it one, does it?

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