e. e. cummings and jumping into puddles.

sometimes i wish the world could go blind. sometimes i wish we would all spontaneously lose our sight at the same time, and be thrust into relying on another soul to find home. to be forced to suddenly function on feeling- on truth- rather than the arrogance of sight, of knowing enough about where we are to ignore where we should be. if we lost our ability to comprehend visually, we would no longer look to the brightly colored for standards we should set. look to the thrice suited elders for what we should deem important. look down on those who differ, or up to those who look down on us.

we would be miserably free. in a painful, beautiful way.

the strong would press on, anger fueling them, until they walked into the ocean and never returned. the weak would pity the self, until they trembled for the final time in their dark corner of solitude. the indifferent would simply adapt, leading no joy nor sorrow to encompass their lives, robots feeling their way down 5th avenue to buy a piece of bread, daily goal being to make it to the next. how simple, how lonely, how cruel.

there is one group left to imagine. we will call them the bold.

this group would sense a change immediately. amidst the screams and the turmoil, they would realize how heightened you become, once visual effects no longer are a factor in perception. they would realize that trees also have a sound. that the air also has a taste. that the warmth of the sun can also be felt; not just viewed until recognized and then filed away, ignored. the bold would be scared, of course. but in reaching out, as we as human souls are predetermined to do, once the deepest depth of our perception is taken away; they would feel. one hand would link to another. appendages would intertwine. our most underestimated sense would take hold.

touch.

in considering love and the properties of such, i realized what an age-old cliche has been telling us for centuries. love is blind. there is no question of that. the blindness preys on the weakened portion of our hearts, the vulnerable, the trusting, the needing. blindness accelerates the strength within us, to the point of obliviously digging our own graves. a lifetime of the two, then, can create the bitter indifference, the gaping maw of survival. existence. hollow satisfaction. we become sleep walkers, quietly drifting, heading nowhere in particular. after all, we've earned it, we've been to hell and back.

in our own pain, once again, we forget about the group that lingers. the miscellaneous. the misfits, the odd-ends... the broken toys, perhaps. that fit in none of the above categories. how well they must hide, then, to never be discovered, lurking in shadows. but allow me to venture a theory at which you will be sure to hoot:

the bold live inside all of us. the weak, the strong, and the indifferent just consume us so entirely that we simply feel too much to believe we have the ability to reach such a state of heightened willingness to screw up. look past the fear, past the rage, past the safety, and there you will find the one shot of adrenaline you need to close your eyes, grab a hand, and trust their eyes- and their heart- to lead you in the right direction.

after all, feeling is first.

why pay any attention to the syntax of things?