The Glass Between Us
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am staring at the wall, wondering why we spend our lives trying to touch things that are meant to stay behind a barrier. We want to hold the cold, to press our skin against the winter, forgetting that some things are only beautiful because they cannot be kept. We reach out, and the surface is always colder than we imagined. It is a strange, quiet ache—the realization that we are always separated from the world by a thin, transparent layer of our own making. We look through it, we see the shape of something precious, but the moment we try to claim it, it begins to melt or shatter. We are left with wet hands and a memory of something that was never truly ours to hold. Why do we insist on reaching for the things that are destined to vanish the moment we get too close?
Azam Rasouli has captured this fragile distance in the image titled A Piece of River Ice. It reminds me that some moments are meant to be observed through the frost rather than held. Does the ice feel the warmth of the hands that try to keep it?
