Blurred Truth

It is so hard to lose one's sight, to not be really able to see things, clearly or otherwise. Oh sure, I can touch and feel textures or tears, silken softness or knurled granite and I can still hear music and tremble at its sweetness, but to not be able to see things clearly is what still sets in the panic, and what I still need to become accustomed to and to understand.

Today for instance, there was something in the tree outside the window. I know the tree is there, it has always been, but there was something in the tree and I couldn't quite see what it was through the blur and I so wanted to. I think it may have been a butterfly, a fleeting wisp of green, delicate and fragile. Just the barest outline of something that seemed magical and out of reach. It may have been one of the earthen fae, tempting me to discover more. But I couldn't reach it and the window's been long painted shut.

Palest of greens against the vivid hues of the tree, my tree I used to climb as a child. As if it were simply hanging there, mid flutter, a breath of an image. It had to be beautiful, but I couldn't really see it. My mind's eyes take over and I envision a luna moth, wings spread as if drying them of morning dew, or that hint of an emerald fairy I dreamed about when young, just beyond vision's reach, tempting, beguiling me.

My eyes tear with mental strain, liquid washing the diluted image and I think of watercolor paintings, subtle shadings with a hint of what is really there, but with edges faintly stretched or withdrawn, redrawn. I lean close to the window, feel its clear chill against my cheek. My fingers press against the glass willing it to dissolve such that I can stretch out my hand and caress that blurred butter-fairy-fly. I smile sadly, but I know, what ever it was, for tis now gone, that my imagination needs must fill in the details I can no longer see. Then I know, for it was no mere butterfly I saw and that it was truly, an earthen aura of the fae flying off into the sunlight.