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✧ REASON #3: READING ✧
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MY FINGERS STEADILY move throughout the object in hand, the bumps sliding from one finger to the next. It's a process where each bump is memorized in perfect synchronization in my mind after years and years of practice.
Not a single image is formed, instead there are to be lines where the images should be. Colours tumble here and there in a mismatched manner for, a lot of colours I do not know. That power was taken like the repeat of the line my fingers now slide over to. The things I do know though are there— they bite everything away one by one trying to let me capture them.
But, there are only so many fragments that I can capture. It's in so many shards, broken and muggled, and even I, do not know myself how many shards aren't there-
It's black. I can't capture any more shards. Where are they? Come back, please. Please. Please. I'm begging you.
I don't deserve this. No one deserves this.
I apply more pressure across the bumps, letting it dig into the pads of my finger. Where some edges are deeper or slanted, they force a wanted temporary mark to appear.
