iâve had it explained to me, when a child, about vision loss (or never having it at all). it wasnât a condition i had, still, as kid, i could only fully understand something by relating to it. so, whenever my eyes would be too full of all the things i wish i couldnât relate to so easily, i would pick up my diary and write. iâve had this pink cd player for as long as i can remember, decorated with all of my favorite stickers, and iâd played the saddest songs a child could possibly listen to. as i outgrew the cd player, the stickers obsession and the childish metaphors, i claimed to have forgotten all about the blindness that only infuriating losses can unleash. i have never outgrew the sadness, though. a few days after my 24th birthday, while listening to flatsound on spotify, iâve opened up my notes app (i still maintain a diary, but a phoneâs lightâs much easier to hide at 1am). iâve made my greatest works while terribly sobbing and more than partially blind by it. temporarily, the tears wouldnât allow me to see. permanently, iâve gathered that there are all this parts of life iâd never be allowed to comprehend, since i cannot face the depth of its colors - some happinesses havenât got a translation in braille, and most happinesses donât translate in poetry. you know, the language us blindingly sad writers speak in.
- s211 could see, yet sheâs never truly saw herself without the grudge of despair.















