From the moment I can remember remembering I was fascinated by light. Flash lights, light bulbs, lamps, street lights, indicators, L.E.D's, that little red one that would come on when the T.V was off; everything up to and including the sun.
I'd stare at them and I mean stare, examining this entity, which, when asked, I could never really describe.
"What's light?"
"Well, it's sort of. . . I dunno."
"What's light?"
"Well, it's sort of. . . I dunno."
Contrastingly, I was terrified of darkness. But, I'd look at lights for so long that when I went to sleep I was never in darkness. Floats of light would form into creatures fashioned by my imagination; entire worlds spawned in front of my closed eyes until I fell asleep.
I got my first pair of glasses when I was 3 years old. The optician said I was the youngest he'd ever had.
"You're the youngest I've ever had, take a lolly."
By the age of 9 I had moved onto my 6th prescription in as many years and by 11, it was clear that either my fascination with this thing I never really understood had to go, or my vision would cease to exist.
"Look, it's not good for your eyes. Either the lights go, or your sight does, I'm an optician, I know these things, now which would you prefer?"
I knew which one I'd prefer but unlike most addictions kids have, like sugar or video games, light can't be taken away. The sun cannot be hidden on the top shelf in a closet. Thus, given my addiction, it was inevitable.
I remember the moment it happened.
I was getting a lecture from my mother for leaving my bedroom light on too late, or something.
The curtains of the kitchen window fluttered in the summer breeze, the sun occasionally finding a direct path to my eyes.
A withered rose on the window sill.
"You have got to cut it out! You heard what the man said! 'Either the lights go or your vision does', plain and simple. Now, you can start by turning off your light earlier at night and then. . ."
And then. . . darkness. And not the plain simple dark variety either. I mean darkness. Pitch black; absolutely nothing.
It wasn't that my mother stopped talking as you might have derived from the prose above, no, she continued on with her lecture, but from that point on, my concern was not what 'the man' had said. It was more along the lines of 'why can I not see anything?'.
It wasn't that my mother stopped talking as you might have derived from the prose above, no, she continued on with her lecture, but from that point on, my concern was not what 'the man' had said. It was more along the lines of 'why can I not see anything?'.
It depresses me deeply that the last object on earth I will ever see, in my life, is a dying flower. Almost clichéd in a way. If it was in a book I'd probably be like "Yeah right, stop trying to sound so poetic", but it's the truth.
A withered, dying, jaded rose.
Needless to say, my mother was taken aback to hear the words "Mom, I. . . I can't see you.", coming from my mouth. She thought I was kidding, so much so that she took me back to see 'the man'; the optician.
"Your son is blind.", to her.
"Son, you're blind.", to me.
I'm not sure when it really dawned on me, or whether it ever really has, that I'm blind. Maybe it never will.
Sometimes it pisses me off that in a world where the majority can see, I am unable to. I sometimes hypothesise what it would be like if roles were reversed, and the majority were blind, and I could see.
I guess it would make for a good comic book or something.
I sometimes wonder what I would do, if I could see again. Maybe I'd travel, see the world. Maybe I wouldn't, I don't know. Seems to me that the novelty of sight would wear off on me again within about 3 months.
Still, beats darkness.
