Through a Blurred Lens

This is the place I belong to, maybe for a lifetime, maybe only until I learn to see differently. It is a quiet corner where I exist like an account on a blockchain recorded, present, yet mostly unnoticed. The lens I look through is blurred, and the eyes on me feel so small that they almost disappear. The world moves, but I only catch fragments of it, wondering if the blur is outside me or something I have carried for too long.

Nothing around me changes unless I choose to clean the lens, even if only a little at a time. I cannot control who notices me, but I can decide how clearly I want to see myself and everything beyond the fog. Maybe the answer is not to search for another place to belong, but to slowly sharpen the view from the place where I already stand.