A Living Euology: To Disappear in Plain Sight;
If you asked me who they were,
I would tell you they spent their life
looking beneath the surface of things.
They were the kind of person
who sat with broken stories
and searched for the wound beneath the wound,
the fear beneath the anger,
the child beneath the adult.
They carried other people's pain carefully,
as though every hurt entrusted to them
was something sacred.
They believed people made sense,
even when they were falling apart.
And perhaps they believed that
because they spent so much time
trying to make sense of themselves.
They were a collector of questions.
Questions about love.
Questions about belonging.
Questions about why some people
spend their whole lives
trying to earn the affection
they should have been given freely.
There was a father-shaped ache inside them.
Not just grief for the man who was,
but grief for the man who might have been.
They understood that love and anger
can share the same home,
that you can miss someone
and mourn what they took from you
at the exact same time.
As a child,
they dreamed everyone else was an alien
and they were the only human left.
Years later,
I think they were still trying to answer
the question hidden inside that dream:
Where do I belong?
Yet despite that loneliness,
they spent their life
helping others feel less alone.
Children.
Teenagers.
Adults carrying invisible scars.
They offered people something
they themselves had long searched for:
To be understood.
They loved stories.
Imagined themselves in magical worlds.
Witches and half-elves and heroes.
Not because they wanted to escape reality,
but because they never stopped imagining
what else a person could become.
They loved their dogs fiercely.
Their blankets found their way onto beds,
their names into conversations,
their wellbeing into daily worries.
Love, for them,
was often practical.
It looked like asking questions.
Checking details.
Remembering things.
Showing up.
They carried grief.
They carried hope.
They carried a thousand unfinished thoughts
about who they were
and who they might still become.
They were trying.
Trying to heal.
Trying to grow.
Trying to build a life
that felt honest.
Trying to make peace
with every version of themselves.
And if this poem
was all that remained,
I think the simplest truth would be this:
Here lived a person
who wanted others to feel seen,
because they knew exactly
what it felt like
to disappear in plain sight.
M.D
- my take on a recent trend.
