I’m typing blind right now. I don’t know if it’s because I can (did the course, obtained a diploma), or because I’m scared for the blank page. But it’s somewhat like the thing I did yesterday, while I was walking back home from the metro. With my eyes closed. Even though it’s a straight line from the station to my home, when I did that, I didn’t know whether I was walking straight or not. I had my headphones on and this particular song just made me do it. Or maybe it happened because I was tired.
In any case, my eyes were closed for some reason and I couldn’t see where I was going. I spread my hands and my fingers out so I could feel the soft breeze. Don’t think I ever noticed that possibility before; can you imagine someone walking with their hands and fingers spread out, the funny sight that makes? Not that I’ve seen it.
And it happened again, I started thinking. What if you lived like this, what if you didn’t know whether you were going straight or not, let alone going in the right direction – let’s imagine I didn’t know the road and I didn’t know the goal, because that is mostly the case with lives, as opposed to residences probably… maybe. I would have to use my senses, and to the maximum because I’m missing one. I should hear what’s happening around me, feel the wind blowing through my fingers, and most importantly smell the bad people from far.
I’ve had these kind of realizations before for some brief moments, but the main question is why it is I only rediscover this once in a while, and how come I only live up to this once in an even longer while? Where are my senses? Sometimes they just appear at the gates as they did yesterday, trying to get out. Most of the times they are starving somewhere in some deep cellar, probably too numb to even try. Once, they were the drawings on my paper, the teddy bear that talked and the mermaid stories that I loved.
The thing is I know they should still be there somewhere, since they show themselves just enough for me to realize. Yet calling them never works. Calling them makes me end up with my head on my desk thinking I have lost them completely.
Ps. Right now I’m thinking “don’t let them mistake me for the woolly kind of type”. And this is exactly what I mean. My senses won’t come out until I’m not ashamed of them anymore.
Pps. My teddy bear talks again and I’m still typing blind.