Fading away

My eyesight is getting bad fast.

One eye is near-sighted and the other is far-sighted. So the visions of my eyes are moving in the opposite directions. It is inconvenient for me in the everyday life. Still, I can drive and read without the glasses. But it gets blurrier and blurrier. I feel a certain kind of stuffiness from my mashed up views that my eyes provide.

At times, I want to see the details of something or someone. But I just accept the views that my eyes allow and contain them inside me as best as I can. I used to feel a keen pang of the loss. Not the materialistic loss but the loss of the small things. The details of certain moments. A piece of mystic puzzles in my life. A brief smile. A flickering moment when the two sets of eyes met. The things scattered that couldn’t be recovered.

But as my vision is getting worse, I am starting to let go of the things; the things done but slipped in my mind; the things undone but clung to my heart. I am getting old.

The cyclamen flowers on my desk bloom, fade, and wither. I cut the flower stems that lost their hue and hung low. I am fading. And the things I want to hold in my heart also fade away.

Too far or too near. I can’t see both.

I miss the things that I don’t remember

“I have a grand memory of forgetting.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson –

On my visit to my friend’s office who moved overseas, I found one of my favorite photographs of the Adriatic sea on the wall that I had taken and printed on the plexiglass for her before. I forgot about it. Totally forgot.

I forgot many things. I miss those things that start to disappear from my brain. I want to run and catch them and put them in the deep drawer of my memory cabinet, labeled “shouldn’t forget”, but the things are fleeting at the speed I can’t keep up. The only thing I do is that I really miss them without knowing what I have lost. Really really miss them…

Turning the page

Weirdly, everything felt as the past. As if she released the grip she held so tight not to lose; not to lose the pain, not to lose the beauty, not to lose the moments, not to lose a single breath.

A peace, even momentary it may be, landed. A chapter ended. She is not dead yet so there will be another. And she will write with the care, with the full consciousness, calm and grounded.

The outer world will shriek again. Tremble and shake. The ground stepping on will crumble under her feet. Again and again. She knows it will. She will be desperate and cry alone at night. All day. But this will come again. A piece of peace, like a slender feather lands in silence.

Jump to end/start

“The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.”

– Kate Chopin, in “The Awakening” –

It must be a pity to watch an immature bird falling. The vulnerable body and the underdeveloped wings. The shattered pieces of the broken one would be impossible to be mended. It would evoke heartbreaking feelings to someones close to her. And they’ve already warned her many times. “Don’t fly until you develop your full wings. I will be very sad to watch you fall.”
But she knows that she would never be ready. She would be old and die with a remorse. Her flesh would be too dry to chew by then.

As she climbs up and up, she tells to herself. “Once is enough. Just once.”
The sun was bright. The sweat trickles down on her forehead. As she lifts her head up, the whole sky melts into her eyes on the top of the hill. The wind blows from the South and tousles her hair gently. She feels the air stretching her arms wide with her palms open.
“This will do.” She whispers to herself and spreads her wings. The delicate white fragile dream she has woven for a decade. Then, she jumps.

Issues in our tissues




by Johann Heinrich Füssli
(February  7, 1741 –  April  17, 1825)

My encounter to his drawings and paintings. He surely showed the human bodies in emotions. Issues in our tissues.
Of course, he is Aquarian… was.

(Featured Image: The Nightmare, From the top: The artist moved to despair at the grandeur of antique fragments, The daughters of Pandareus, Silence)