So bright; I can't.
Again, just a little.
I have a nose, and I can see it through my fuzzy lenses.
Still too bright.
Close completely.....
Now, open. Open wide, just once more.
Here I am: on a stump.
Legs in front, and the rest follows.
My writing quickens to keep up with the pace of an approaching storm; I can feel it coming,
as if by my biological clock,
as if it were only for me.
You blinked, and now it's dark. But if you close them again, and maybe you won't notice the approaching storm.
... It's not working.
No? I thought eyes were sensors for anything... but I suppose even a blind man would know if the rain were coming.
You don't need eyes to see the stampede of a storm.. In fact, if I were blind I would feel the tension more. The booms would erupt in my ears and lead me to something more than home, because home would be nothing but pitch-blackness that I fill with imagination. The sounds would paint pictures in my mind with whatever I believed color and images to be. The wind would be my only competitor, running right behind me, putting on the pressure just before passing. The rain would both pull me down and refresh me, mesh with me, becoming my tears and my sweat. I wouldn't know my own body aside from the tingling from all around me; and I'd have to imagine myself in the world as the negative shape my surroundings create. I'd have to imagine myself to be everything that nature wasn't, or else become everything that it was.
Open or not, it's about to pour.
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