Hysterical Blindness

There are none so blind as those who do not see. 

I walk into brick walls often, many admonish me to look where I'm going.  Blindness isn't always in the eyes of the beholder.  Sometimes it's the darkness of a mind, the beating of a black heart. 

Even the blind can see.

We see through the scent of a cloud whispering from a far away sky, through the touch of a breeze that's traveled around the world to greet us.  We see through the sounds of a lonely piano where great passions are spilled forth to dance as a fire licks the night air. 

Mine is a hysterical blindness in that it keeps me from seeing the moments mercifully buried, but I live in fear of what could possibly be blacker than the horrors remaining unseen in my memory.  Happiness is fleeting; I find myself living those moments as often as possible, while I scribble in the moon's light trying to recover what's been lost. 

Long have been the nights that I've slashed my veins to write in bloody ink, chasing my demons into the midnight.  Or... am I the one pursued?  It is in those hours that I look for something tangible, anything to bind me to a world of realism, and not the twisted turns of my mystical whirlstorms.  When the ivory sings to me, its voice comes from the soul of another, and as I strive to be heard, I am calmed by common expressions.  The soothing touch of a human hand allows me to toss my words about without fear of falling alone.