i've already been here (30-day writing challenge: day four)

(yes, I skipped day three. I can't find the inspiration for that topic right now, sorry.)

How do you look for something to help you see when you can't see?

People always ask me, "What does it look like?" How do you explain? What can I say that will make you understand something that is so inherently personal?

I see shapes. I see blocks and blobs of color. If you've ever watched an Animal Planet show that depicts how a cat or a dog is supposed to see the world, it's kind of like that. But less focused. There are no solid outlines, there is no definition. If things are small enough and far enough away, sometimes they just cease to exist. Especially words. Words are usually tiny, and always very dependant on definition. So if I can't see the definition, they just aren't there.

The blurriness causes my brain has this strange disconnect. If I can't see, I must look blurry to other people. But putting my glasses on doesn't affect how defined I am.

I went to the eye doctor with my mom in 7th grade, after I was having problems reading the chalk writing on the blackboard from the back of the classroom. I had my appointment, picked out frames and we waited while they fit the lenses.

I didn't really understand what had happened until we walked outside and looked around. I said, "woah" and my mom laughed.

"The trees have leaves on them!"

Maybe that's how I should describe it. Without my glasses, the tops of trees are green blobs. Like a little kid, drawing a tree. A brown trunk with a green cloud, floating on top.

With them, there are leaves.

(day four prompt: a pair of eyeglasses)

all the little ants go marching (30-day writing challenge: day two)

Together, but not together, and she is fresh out of ideas.

“So we’re dating, but…we’re not saying that we’re dating?” She asks, brows furrowing as she tries to understand. “I don’t get it. What’s the point?”

He has been gazing – no, not gazing, staring – at her for the past few minutes, silently, though the look in his eyes screams of distance. Her eyes find familiarity in his face as he searches for an answer. There’s a loose curl hanging in front of the barely noticeable scar on his forehead. Unthinkingly, she reaches out to tuck it back. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t react, either.

“I love you.”

As if that’s his answer.

She frowns. Not out of sadness or disgust, but confusion. Well, mostly confusion.

“But you love her, too.”

It’s not a question, but a statement, and his eyes shift away for the first time since he finished the phone call. He shrugs, looking somehow defeated and combative at the same time. “I love a lot of people.”

“Well, so do I,” She replies, trying desperately not to hiss the words through her teeth. “but I don’t tell them. I don’t talk to them that way. Not like that.”  

The last three thoughts come out more quickly, more jumbled, than she had meant. With more intensity than she had anticipated. She sighs, trying to gather her thoughts and her breath. She realizes that her fists are clenched at her sides, so she slowly unclenches them, trying to make the motions seem involuntary. Not that he believes that they are, but she might trick herself into believing they are.

“It’s complicated. You know that, I told you that.”

He’s trying to explain, in his own way. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but now he’s too scared of his own emotions to look her in the eye. He’s afraid she’ll see what he’s thinking. Not that he doesn’t care, but that he cares too much. He can’t give himself away like she can – like she has. He admires her for that, but he’s starting to think that it won’t be enough. It won’t ever be enough.

There’s a long silence before either of them speak. Before either of them move again.

“Ok.” She says, finally breaking the silence. “Ok.”

His head jerks up sharply, and he looks at her, searching for any hint of reserve. “Ok?”

She nods – maybe a little too enthusiastically -- forcing her mouth into an awkward smile, trying to shake off the tension still gripping her shoulders. And she thinks to herself, If you can be that way, so can I.

(day two prompt: a couple)

you're what we were (30-day writing challenge)

Staring up at the ceiling, her mind makes up scenarios.

The camera angle widens; the shot becomes clearer, zooming out to reveal the sides of a vintage, claw-foot tub. The shower curtain wraps around the outside, dark and red, filtering crimson light over her catatonic stare. Cut to a shot looking up, watching the water fall from the showerhead. It pans down, past her feet, resting above the spigot. Past her knees, bruised and discolored...

She blinks a few times, wiping her eyes with her fingertips to clear the water from her lashes as she sits up. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she sits with her back to the water, letting the beads of scaldingly hot water pummel her skin. The heat dries her out, makes her itchy later, but the all-inclusive warmth is worth it, in the moment.

Her eyes close and she leans against the side of the tub, letting her head fall forward. The water rushes down over the top of her head, forcing her hair to clump and fall, hanging like curtains on either side of her face. The water makes it dark and heavy. She disappears into the sound of the falling water. It's soothing, like rain, but also loud and tumultuous. Like a storm or a waterfall. It's white noise, and it drowns out everything else so that for a while, she can just...be. Existence is enough.

She doesn't have to please anyone. She doesn't have to listen to anyone; she doesn't even have to deal with her own thoughts. It's enough, just like this. It's enough, just to forget.

{via}

(day one prompt: something you love)