I tried to see through the light but the effort only increased my blindness. Narrowing my eyelids allowed for less light, but the light only intensified in brilliance so that I no longer was observing but was seeing the light from the inside out like a skin-cell in a microscope with too strong of a lens. So I closed my eyes completely but the black was tainted red. My eyes were closed but I saw the red all they same. I covered my face with my hands so the darkness came over me and the red disappeared.
I imagined all the things that were living in the light with their eyes open, pondering the visual distance between one another.
What, then, would it be like not to have eyes at all? Like a rose—still needing light to grow, but unaware of what light looks like; unable to see for yourself the color of your petals that human beings compare in poems to the color of their blood, their sunsets, and their suffering—how could you count the number of your thorns in comparison to your leaves?
I imagined all the things that were living in the light with their eyes open, pondering the visual distance between one another.
What, then, would it be like not to have eyes at all? Like a rose—still needing light to grow, but unaware of what light looks like; unable to see for yourself the color of your petals that human beings compare in poems to the color of their blood, their sunsets, and their suffering—how could you count the number of your thorns in comparison to your leaves?
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