Blindness

Horus bathed my sleep with light.

Submerged, patterns of colors and stains under the lids of my eyes.

I groped, blinded by the golden streaks putting darkness into turmoil. I crept, struggling with the brightness; It curled me up, dried me like an autumn leaf; A solemn foot would have crushed my fragility with a crispy, vindictive shriek.

I blundered on, eyes shut, seeing strange patterns under the veil.

Muffled cries sparked from around me. An orchestra of quiet agony; the agony of blindness! The peasants and queens shook each other, trembling in fear and disgust; the light drowned their impurities.

I walked, erratically, fending my way through the white fire. At last, a child!
Shaken with pleasant laughter, she groped my hands and jumped in my arms in sign of salute. Alone, could we exist, then! Only in embrace, for darkness shone in the shadows of our bodies pressed in unison.

“Ah, don’t you see! This game, of darkness in the light! Let us play for ever!”
She trotted off, jumping steadily, spasmodically, joyfully.

I continued, melancholy for the brief shadow of embrace.


I came to a woman; or perhaps, I imagined her so, for my eyes still sensitive, could not see.
Oh, but I could hear he screams! She was jumping, and running, and touching, madly, for nothing could be found in the light! Oh no, all was lost, her games, her folly, her Chinese cups, she could not find any of her treasures.

“I once had a little winding music box;” She paused, and trembled, shaking her head in despair.
“The music box, I miss it so! As a child, she was my friend, my lover; Oh, music box! I have lost you in the light! Once so near…oh it must be behind me, or ahead, just too far for my hands to reach!”

She began to scream, and falter, and fall, convulsing in the nothingness.
Powerless, she abandoned her frantic search for sobs of desperation.


I moved onwards, clutching my heart with a sword.



I came to a man. And he was composed, stretched calmly in this white; he looked around, blankly, but would not let the gnawing emptiness shake his sanity.

In front of him, rows and rows of clocks. The ticking somber, dull, high, immense, and tiny. I stopped, listening to the orchestra of out-of-tune drum sets.

Suddenly, the man burst out in anger!

“I have lost it again! How many were there then? Three-hundred and forty-five? Or was it forty-six? Or perhaps, thirty-six!” He sat in pause, ticking his head along with the monotonous knick knacks.

“Why are you counting clocks, then, sir?”

Bewildered, the man stood, breathing heavily.

“My clocks, I cannot remember how many there were. If I forget to count them each morn, I could fail to see one missing! And then, imagine my clocks. I collect them, you know; I collect their tick tocks too. The ticking is my companion! The clocks cannot be missing! But now, with this infernal light, I keep loosing count, for I see no paper and pen with which to write down the numbers as I go!”

And with that, abandoned all attempt at calm, he fell into a fit of convulsions, spreading himself, like a weak, tired bird, slave to the blinding mistress of that morning.

Still, I blundered on. Ah, I missed the refreshing cool of night! Moans from around prayed for concealment. Our eyes, confined to the play of spots under our lids.