I used to think I knew myself. I flattered myself, in fact, that I looked deeper inside than most, that I had clearer eyes than most, that I analyzed more than most.
I was looking, all right, but I was only seeing the inside of a blindfold.
For the past year, I’ve had this nagging sense of my own blindness. The more I probed, observed and analyzed, the less I understood. I didn’t add up. I didn’t connect. I made no sense.
You can only do so much working with darkness.
But all that probing, observing and analyzing did accomplish something. It weakened the fabric of the blindfold. I picked at a thread until it was loose, pulled it and twisted it and worked it up and down until the whole thing started to unravel.
Then suddenly it disintegrated.
Now I can see, but I can’t bear to look. The sudden glare is too much for someone who’s worn a blindfold his entire life. And I’m afraid that even if I could keep my eyes open, I wouldn’t like what they’d see. So I’m keeping my eyes tightly shut.
This state is uneasy. It cannot last. My mind is filled with thoughts derived from the dark. I no longer trust them. But my mind has yet to admit any thoughts derived from the light. So it’s useless. And stuck. It’s like an infinite loop. Or maybe it’s fractured. Or shattered. I cannot tell.
Meanwhile I’m moving slowly towards the light, feeling my way along, listening carefully, trying to comprehend what I’ve never experienced. I can mouth the words, I can recite their dictionary definitions, but I cannot understand them. And those words are supposed to be my goal. But so far they’re just words.
All I know is my normal may be abnormal, but it’s still normal to me.
And if I sometimes find myself furtively groping for another blindfold, maybe you can understand. After all, if there’s one thing I do know, it’s how to fly blind.
