When I was younger I would sometimes close my eyes tight shut to try and see what it would be like to be blind. Sometimes I would try and walk from the kitchen to the living room, or from the bathroom to my bedroom. Sometimes I'd try to brush my teeth, or find a particular object just using my memory and my finger tips. Sometimes I'd just lie there, staring at the back of my eyelids.
What astounded me was the diversity of colours that danced there, in the dark. Strange polygons dissolved and morphed in pea green and ultraviolet. Bright sparks rained in the periphery; forms divided and multiplied like a kaleidoscope. When I gazed at a light, or the sun, it would shine through the thin skin and explode in blossoms of burnt orange, rich red and billowing curtains of beige. If I pressed gently on my eyes the colours would burst and dazzle me, circling in a hypnotic storm of lights. When I opened my eyes again everything would look grey and cold. I said to myself, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all, being blind. If you could see colours like that.
Years later, looking back, I think about how terribly sad my young self would have found it, to know that to be truly blind is to see nothing. Nothing at all.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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