Standing in a room, four walls, no door, but one locked window
One window to portray to his eyes what he can never truly experience.
He leans, hand pressed against the window and stares out seeing.
Just seeing.

The warmth on that glass, oh, the warmth. It stays there on his palm.
He closes his eyes trying to spread the warmth from his hand throughout his body.
The little feeling he still has derives from that window into his hand and no further,
Numb, nothing, blank.

He screams hoping that this time someone will hear him, self-pity reigns again.
All right and wrong outside the window, he can see. Each emotion on the face every being, he knows.
Still, he is neither seen nor involved in any interaction with those outside.
Invisible.

Those living outside of his window he watches over, with a pull in his stomach.
He has never lived among them, how could he feel anything? To him all emotions are external.
The pull in his stomach to those outside would be loneliness. To him, though, it is merely uncomfortable.
No reaction necessary.

With both hands now pressed against the glass he remembers the room in which he is in.
He steps away from the glass pushing off with his fingertips leaving the glass last.
Backing up until he hits the wall behind him with a thud. Hands over his ears, he hears it now.
Deafening silence.

Living with the desire to live among those outside drove an impossible dream.
Keeping him locked within what he sees now as a cage, a box, a prison. He wanted freedom.
Knowledge struck him on the floor of that room. He was free. Free to observe without bias and judgment.
Realization.