This was written in the depths of a long, dreadful summer still making itself known, mixed with conversion disorder. It was autobiographical at the time, and I’m glad it’s fiction now.
-AS
A Simpering Mess of Blinded Writer
- Originally posted on a 6s community, September 28, 2010 at 9:17am
Have you ever thought you saw something move, but the harder you look, the less you see?
I know the keyboard; I do not need to see it with eyes, for my fingers execute their duties without guidance. But the screen, the page, the focal point – these are divergent, swimming, elusive things, and the harder I look, the less I see.
On the verge of reading a word, it becomes unreadable, foreign; on the verge of making out an idea, it flies on devil’s wings. And so I rub knuckles into eyelids; I blink away mounting confusion; I take a deep breath and try not to panic.
But I want to panic: I want to devolve into a simpering mess of blinded writer; yet, I do not, rather I peck the keys, hope for few mistaken strokes, and go do something manual, something demanding and fruitful the way writing is but that doesn’t remind me that I cannot always make out those little jots of physical or digital ink.
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