Specifics, Talia Natoli

Specifics

There’s something in the corner of my eye. It’s something I can’t see, hidden just between the crease of my nose and eyelid. It’s right there, just out of reach, just unnoticeable. The more I stare, the harder it is to see the world around me, harder to catch glimpses of a larger reality. My whole life force centered on one little detail, one small insignificant thing that takes all my attention. I should look away, but everyone always tells me “perfection is in the details.” So I keep searching for that tiny thing I know must be there. Then other voices come through my deaf ears, “don’t miss the forest through the trees,” and I stop, unsure. When do I look at the details and when do I notice the world? It’s all so messed up, so hypocritical, so foolish. When I open my eyes to how large the world is, I understand how utterly alone we are. Yet, when I look at the tiny details I see that humans are so large. We have so much power; too much power and knowledge that shouldn’t be known. So how do I fit? Am I a detail or the background? Am I noticed or tossed aside? I suppose it depends which people are looking, the ones who look at the trees, or the ones who see the forest. Because really aren’t they the same thing? Don’t the details make the background? Couldn’t you miss both if you were too caught up in the illusion of living? Caught in the constant storm of movement that escalates the more you sit in silence, and the tide dragging you away the more you look at the details and the more you look at the world around. It all becomes so deafening, so loud, but I can’t stay here, unsure which thoughts are from reality and which are from my dreams. Stuck in this neverending halfway point between detail and background–one too small to notice, the other too large to deserve awareness. Maybe this thing–the thing at the corner of my eye–will tell me what I need to know. If I could only grab it, if I could only see it clearly, I’d know everything. So I stare, looking closely, squinting my eyes into tiny slits of glass through which I can barely see. And I notice now what I am: a detail in the background. Just waiting to see something I know might not be there. I wait... wait. How do I escape from this endless waiting? Why do I stand still as the

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world swirls around me? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I see the details and the background all at once? Why can’t the world be smaller and our empathy so much greater?

Talia Natoli ’17

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