It was dark. So dark. My hands, my arms, even my typically luminescent white pants were invisible to me. The air was a frigid wall, the sort of thin air that captured your breath in a rising cloud of vapor. If you could see it. But it was as though my eyes were closed and my mind just barely conscious. That moment before sleep when it's a strain to imagine even a hint of red in your vision.

Where were the stars, the moon? What was this pungent darkness? Was my home, my entire planet disintegrating around me? Had it all disappeared like consciousness ripped away from the dying? Or had it simply changed, a salt crystal dissolving in water? Would the ground, the one familiarity left, begin to dissolve beneath my feet? When I wake from this darkness will it be to my familiar earth or to find myself sinking in purple water?

Who has stranded me here? What could have taken away the sun? What is next? The remaining sound? Will I, with a gust of wind, be cursed both blind and deaf? Or will my world, by tinnitus, slowly fall away?

My eyes! What could prompt you to abandon me so? What have you done to me? In pain, you left me. You deserted me with a scarred demeanor and searing jolts of discomfort. How do you expect me to survive? To provide for myself? How can I push on with only sound? Sound that, without corresponding image, is eerie and unfamiliar.

Man was not made to be blind. What am I now but a child, weak, lost in time?


(Scribblings in a useless class. And, oh, how I hate this keyboard and its sticking keys.)