the fine art of staring

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You're in the grocery line or stopped at a red light, glance shifting from side to side, unconsciously looking for something to focus on. Then, you find it. The couple laughing while walking down the sidewalk, the mother looking for her coupons while her baby cries, or maybe just a mere spot on the floor that has become increasingly interesting. Whatever it is: time slows, movement stops. Once the eyes glaze, they lose focus, like a pond untouched by wind, the world's thinnest glass that can be rippled by a breath. Suddenly, the couple stops laughing, the woman hushes her baby, the spot becomes less interesting, and it all shatters. You blink rapidly, quickly looking up to see that the light has turned green or that it is your turn to check out your items.
    The most innocent of stares is that of interest, derived from boredom. A child sitting behind a desk, looking at their teacher as they spoke, trying desperately to comprehend and maintain an active look. This did not last long as it declined into a stare. The instructor's words blended together, having no meaning after the brain tuned them out. The kid turned his focus to the tree out the window where a bird sat on a limb. He watches this bird, imagining himself being able to lift his wings and fly, out of the room and into the air. The idea of listening to the lesson is gone, along with the bird as it disappears into the foliage. A sigh escapes his lips as he drops his stare, turning back to the front of the class to try and fill in the blanks before the teacher asks a question the child did not volunteer to answer.
    On the other end of the spectrum is a hostile stare. One of competition or hatred, meant to cause discomfort in the poor soul on the receiving end. People watching, standing on the outskirts of a crowd, simply scanning over the heads of the people when you find them. The bully that made fun of your dirty clothes or the nasty ex-boyfriend who just never apologized. You make a double-take, turning your attention back to them. Your face heats, the emotions wash over you like a cloud covering the sun, eyebrows furrow, a scowl twists your mouth. Abhorrence takes over and your gut reaction is to stare at them as if your eyes were weapons. However, hurt is hidden by hatred, the former is evidence of the broken trust, the shame, or, the worst of them all, the "why". Why did you say those things to me? Why did you lie to me? Why did you leave me? These are the Robin Hood of emotion: stealing from the pathetic hurt and showing expression as hate. Once you realize this, your face relaxes, eyes soften, and the hurt shows. Any question you had comes rear its ugly head again, you beg the hatred to come back. . . because it's easier. It's easier to be angry, to give them a dirty look and turn the other cheek. The pain stays, clinging to you like a grumpy plane passenger that you have no choice but take care of. You keep feeding it, begging to reach your destination so the leech can finally be satisfied and go.
        Even now, while writing, I seem to not be able to get words from my mind. Nothing flows, nothing sounds right, so I simply stare at the screen of my laptop. My mind is unfocused, wanting to draw my attention to something-anything-else. The song I heard on the radio that I didn't like is now on a loop, the scenario that is never going to happen is quite realistic when acted out in my head. A few moments of being in mind and I match the description: eyes glazed and wide, concept of time lost, movement ceased. My stare is strange, a part of it is lack of inspiration to write. But other half, is a mix of all the looks I have not been able to give: to a loved one gone, a friend I no longer talk to, someone at the park. They all come back and begin to realize why statues are so profound: it's the stare. The look that says nothing but means something different in a different hour of the day. The look that turns us to stone, solidifying the emotion of the moment until it is chipped away and we come back to life.