She looked at me and yet she did not see me.

The theme of invisibility has haunted me for many years, since earliest girlhood. A woman often feels ‘invisible’ in a public sense precisely because her physical being - her ‘visibility’ - figures so prominently in her identity. She is judged as a body, she is ‘attractive’ or ‘unattractive’, while knowing that her deepest self is inward, and secret: knowing, hoping that her spiritual essence is a great deal more complex than the casual eye of the observer will allow… it might be argued that all persons, defined to themselves rather more as what they think and dream than what they do, are ‘invisible’.

I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything except me.

Her eyes stare at me but she seems not to see me; she looks as though she were lost in her suffering.

i am invisible understand, simply because people refuse to see me

When you’re invisible, no one can see that you’re different.

No other looked into her secret eyes.
Nobody dared.

Have you ever considered, beloved other, how invisible we are to each other? We look at each other without seeing. We listen to each other and hear only a voice inside out self.

The words of others are mistakes of our hearing, shipwrecks of our understanding. How confidently we believe OUR meanings of other people's words.

My true single consolation is that she is not present to see me in my agony of her death.

That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting either. It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves.

being invisible means you can immerse yourself in a crowd and start clasping boobs and buttocks, then leap aside and laugh as some poor chap gets a clip round the ear. Laugh quietly obviously. And changing rooms! You can sneak into changing rooms and sit right there in the middle of the place while pretty girls get wet and take all their clothes off. You could go and hide in the showers themselves, but since the water on your body wouldn't be invisible you'd have to rely on them not noticing a semi-transparent man appear in the corner. You could pretend to be a novelty glass statue, but you wouldn't be able to explain the developing glass stiffy. (Why it would kick arse to be invisible)

Instead of a vow of silence, I took a vow of invisibility. At that time you were looking for someone to love, and that’s why you couldn’t see me.

I don't talk with everybody because i am not everybody, i am single.

I was looking at her while she was talking, thinking to myself that I’m a stranger in this woman’s eyes. She’s looking at me but she doesn't see me. Then she finally said how she hates this society for what it’s done to “women like me” who hate themselves so much they have to look and act like men. I felt myself getting flushed and my face twitched a little and I started telling her, all cool and calm, about how women like me existed since the dawn of time, before there was oppression, and how those societies respected them, and she got her very interested expression on—and besides it was time to leave.