Musical Mead

Chapter 2

One Month.

"Blind" is defined as someone who only sees darkness and is unable to detect shapes and colours. It's frequently reported as a disability in the eye that leaves one eye or both eyes without sight or visionary representation. Blindness was more than an abnormality noted in text books and health classes of sorts. The word "blind" was much more dominant and destructive than what met the eye. Being blind was a poisonous only inflicted on the ones too frail and too welcoming. It was my fault this happened. I should have turned the offer away.  Being blind was not only a poison, but it was now my title and how I'd be presented to the world.

So many people try too often to ignore the fact that their peer is blind, so they do their best to focus on something that isn't so striking or notable. Now that they are bringing their attention away from the peer, it is now glued inside of their heads that the peer is blind, disabled, and should not be gawked at, at all cost. Now, whenever they look at their peer, their social status was on the line. This brings even more attention to the peers disability, and that attention will linger with the peer for the rest of their lives. I was the peer.

Playing the peer was difficult, because I did not choose the script. I did not rehearse it, and I was stuck with it.

Being blind brought darkness, and that darkness fed into affliction. An affliction that also was not observed by doctors. The affliction had several ties with the darkness. With the darkness, I was not able to daydream about personages or gape at stunning works of architecture. I could never envision treading along an earthy trail with the love of my life, and trying to picture something as comprehensible as rain inflated me with fumes of exhaustion and aggravation and despair.

So many words and not enough space in the medical dictionary to define that five-letter word. Five letters with a definition so irrelevant that a falsification is long overdue.

I settled apart of myself while resting my head in the hollow of the couch's pillow-- a part of myself that was tired, upset, confused. Confused as to why God had chosen me to inhabit a disability so daunting and so incurable. Why he had chosen me to seek a successful life that I could hardly see. I've mentally written down so many questions that only God can answer and so many questions that God has yet to answer. So many questions upon questions that I would've drowned in them if affliction hadn't pulled me out.

Murmurs of drained adults were static in the hallways at this hour, but these murmurs were nearing the apartment door and that reminded me that my humanity and my heart were still laboring. I still found happiness in the little things like hearing family members laugh or holding babies, and I still found terror in death and robbery. The earth was still spinning, and I was still on it.

“Shawn, I'm home.” Mom shouted, closing the door and pausing for a breath. Perhaps submerging into any sense of happiness that could be found in the spacious living room.

“Right here.” I whispered from the couch, almost losing myself.

“Oh! How was school?” I heard her step around the room, moaning floor boards trailing behind her.

“Dark, as always.” I joked.

She didn't laugh this time, and I could almost taste what was left of the sincerity that floated around in that fruity voice of her's. “I have something for you.” she announced, unzipping a bag.

“What's that?” I sat up, eager for something modern, but also for something solitary.

“Guess.” she sat the substance in my arms. It was furry, breathing, and felt so miniature and defenseless.