My eyes hurt.
And I don’t care.
They can protest all they want, those eyes, but I don’t give a damn.
They must go on staring; staring into oblivion, staring at my computer screen, staring at people’s chins. (THEIR eyes are much too risky because they might mirror my own.)
Because my staring eyes are my only salvation. Any pause, any reprieve, might give the synapses in my brain time to fire off other data and other messages.
No. The eyes must continue to stare, stare so intently that the curtain will start to drop in front of them, and they will convey this fogginess, this nothingness, this emptiness onto my brain so that my brain will, blessedly, enjoy the silence.
Sometimes I realize that I’ve been staring so single-mindedly that I’ve failed to notice that my eyes are yet again mounting their protest by sending moisture down my face. I’m afraid to blink, sometimes. I don’t want to give my brain time to think about anything other than what my eyes see and don’t see; And so I’ve become like those girls who cut themselves because the sharp self-inflicted pain is so much easier to deal with than the ambiguous tidal wave of anguish that they feel inside.
My poor eyes. Knife and wound all at once, they diligently stare on while silently coloring themselves in hope that someone will save them.
It hurts.
—
Canary writes here.
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