I have been blessed by whatever force commands the Universe to have been genetically predisposed to myopia. Whenever my glasses slip off their uncomfortable perch on my nose, whenever I shed the torturous contraction of the contact lenses that aid me to avoid slamming headfirst into doorways and deceptively wide corners, I am allowed the privilege of seeing the world in a new fashion, one that ‘healthy’ people cannot have access to. I see the smudgy spots of faces, rushing by in a myriad of colours and shapes; I see streaks of rainbow-shaded halos and bright flashes of light that leave me guessing: is it a lamp? A flashlight? The screen of someone’s mobile phone? Or are they headlights of an approaching car that is about to slam into me, leaving me cold and breathless on the pavement?
Of course I rarely allow myself the pleasure of gazing upon the world like this. It isn’t safe. It’s never safe out there for those who see things differently.
Waking up is an experience in itself. My world turns from darkness to a fluorescent invasion of daylight to shape and form within seconds. Nevertheless, everything is still blurry. Uncertain. The only certain thing within my field of vision is the sleepy myopic lying next t
o me. With the world hidden by its distance, I can distinguish every pore on his face, every hair, every eyelash that flutters. When his eyes open, they are unfocused, new-born. Then he sees me and our worlds lock, centred on one another. The haze fades even more and for a moment, just a moment, before we have to enslave our eyes with wire frames and narrow our view to what life actually is, there is just him and me.
My blessed myopic and I.