There is a strange beauty in the slow loss of sight, for there is a progressive transition, a discovery of much that went unheard, unfelt, missing in the glare of the need to see, to categorize and organize, memories neatly arranged in an array of curated visual files.
But without sight what once was cast aside as noise is an intricate tapestry of sound and undistracted, you begin to see the individual threads to see deeply into the art and craft of the unknown weaver.
Without sight, you so often store images in two dimensions but now requiring touch, everything is three dimensional of necessity and the world is infinitely more complex and yes beautiful than you recalled.
And the darkness of night, which marked a border that dared not be fully crossed grows meaningless and hours once lost may again now demand to be lived.
On this night he walks silently into her dream uninvited, but she is used to the incursions. On other nights it is she who sidles up to him in the depths of dreaming, each slipping away ahead of dawn. On rare nights each enters the dreams of the other, paths crossing at the synaptic border. On those nights she looks for him, he for her, each grows fearful the he or she will be trapped, alone, when dawn arrives and the body gently wakes, she or he wandering lost in a familiar alien reality.
There is little you can do about it, less that you want to do, although they are not pleased with your decision. Remind them that they are the ones that left the decision to you, mostly in the hope you would do what they hoped, taking them off the hook, but they now realize they have been hoist with their own petard and the walls, gates they wanted breached still stand with you on the sideline watching their farce unfettered. They will not ask again and you laugh, for if they did it you would give it a try just to see the look on their faces.
No matter how hard you look at maps you cannot find that evanescent border that divides weariness from exhaustion. You need no papers to slip across, no guards or fences will greet you, you may be well across before anyone notices. The return journey is harder still for you won’t have marked your way, and the bramble of phone calls, the thicket of absurdities that demand your attention will constantly ensnare you. Still, it is wise to pause and see where, who are you are you Schroedinger or are you the cat.
It is one thing to be short, quite another to be too short, just as it is one thing to be tall, another thing to be too tall. It is a separate thing determining where the border of “too” should be drawn for any dimension. I am short, but I will never be too short, and never too tall. Some believe faith is a dimension, and you can be Jewish or too Jewish, Christian or too Christian, but I am Buddhist which cannot be a faith for you simply cannot be too Buddhist.