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Blind
Published in An Anatomy of Chester, edited by Ashley Chantler, 2007
Colour was a miracle.
It remains so, but more pleasing were the many things that did not appear the way they feel. I never believed steam would look so coldly white, or rain so soft - like liquid light, each bead so fragile it shatters touching earth.
Music is invisible. Perfume, too. I knew this, but hoped the sighted world had lied.
People are sight’s first casualty. To the blind, people are mostly bland. Wrinkles must cut deep before fingertips discern them. People are wounded beings. Not one of you is so smooth you do not hurt to look upon.
Life amazes me less and less. It jars. Peeling wallpaper spikes my nerves; handwritten notes never look quite clean. The dark depresses me. I see no need for it. Colour disappears. This is what appalls. If I wake in the night, it is the orange streetlamp that redeems me. I miss nothing of the day
Adam’s first sin was disobedience: his second sin was sight. I sleep separately from my wife.
In my pocket I keep a patch of yellow velvet. I take it out for comfort, and see it feelingly.