• “The beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.” Virginia Woolf

    It was a dark and abandoned room; or so it would have appeared as I strode through the creaking doors. The old light flooded the room as I threw open the musty curtains. Specks of dust, interrupted from their long and lonely sleep gently brushed my face. I could remember the very same sight from the depths of my mind as they glittered through the light, timelessly drifting down. A time, a decade before the present flickered through my mind in faded vision, as though it were a blurry photograph. I was but a young girl of ten exploring the world of fiction as I sat on the window seat: concealing my presence behind the thick red curtain. The magnificent sun shone brightly on the yellowing pages as the beautiful words encapsulated my mind. I lay there oblivious to the outside alone and ignorant; hour on hour on end until the day would gradually darken to night. Yet, this world of words was forbidden to me as my father’s brother had often scolded me. I would then gaze out through my window, watching other children playing with each other while I sat in silence.

    Suddenly, the loud chiming of the hourly bell shuddered through me signifying the morning gone and the afternoon beginning. What a shock it brought me, as it does day after day which of course can be expected to one such as I who has not returned in years. Through the window, I heard the gentle whoosh of the wind as it raced through the blades of grass. I felt a sudden urge to reach out into the open and feel the gentle brush of the breeze. I leaned forward onto the red velvet cushions as I fumbled for the window latch; and alas felt the cold metal in my grasp. I carefully unlocked them and pushed the windows out and breathed in the cool, clean air. As I leaned on the windowsill the wind caressed my cheek and brushed my hair as though it had a mind of its own. And it occurred to me that the day was still fresh! If I could, I would be with the wind: free and dignified but I know deep in my heart that it will never be.

    The chirping birds flew from branch to branch, fluttering their small wings as the trees swayed to the whispering wind. I had watched in longing of such moments of beauty and freedom many times afore. I could imagine a small leaf, plucked from the grasp of its mother branch to smoothly ride the currents of the wind and gently float into the sparkling pond. The flow of life was so unpredictable; so exciting. I too selfishly wanted to ride the currents of the wind and would wonder where it could take me. But such a dream is no longer my dream as my sight fled me forever. I sit here lost in the nothingness of my mind yet in my darkness feel the tingling sensation of the sun’s rays. How could I have known that I would return to this house blind?

    The carpet rustled as I turned around, fingers trailing against the cold wall as they guided me around the room. Thinking such negative thoughts was not good for the health. In my room, there was nothing much to be done. All of which had been taken care by the maids; everything unpacked and cleaned. I felt for my well worn book; longing to feel the ink on the pages and read its words. But my passion for words has lessened as the time moves on. Now in this present day, I must request to some unfortunate person read to me which is much of a pain. Most of whom I have encountered, happily agree to read for me out of pity rather than out of friendship. It also is quite humorous in the way an occasional someone would react to my request as they would quickly reply some nonsensical answer and then take their leave. I suppose there are some bittersweet joys to being sightless.

    I used to sit at the glistening waters of Serpentine Lake in the afternoon doing nothing but listening and observing. I would see the droplets shaken off with a sudden flap of wings as the bird leaped from the water. There would be a constant array of noises from the singing of birds to the pleasant hum of the city. Small children would squeal with joy as the ducks paddled cautiously toward them, attracted by the bread they scattered and in turn, I would smile because of their sheer happiness and innocence. I would do this often; three, no four times a week. One would never be able to forget times of joys such as these. But as time passed, people began to live in growing fear. It was as though a thick dark mist began to creep through the streets of our city; slowly and carefully since that stormy winter’s day they announced the beginning of the war that brought nothing but death and destruction. Many moved away, and soon I too joined the league of people moving to the distant country where it would be ‘safe’. Though despite all claims, windows were covered and there were many explosions. I can remember the booming sounds as a bomb flew from the sky and ripping to pieces the wood that was once was a home. A few years passed and when it was all over, we all came back to what looked like our city; a bit battered in places as I was told. I once again heard the hum of the city once again but the melody to the words had changed. Was it the people that changed? No. What a preposterous thought! If we talked of the same things and did everything as we used to, how could anything possibly be wrong? The only change is that I now sit in the middle of this lonely abandoned room; living and breathing in this pit of darkness that is my mind. No one will sit beside me nor even know of my presence. Maybe… perhaps I am the only one who has changed.

    Book in hand, I once again carefully sauntered my way, fingers as usual guiding me, toward the very same window seat I love. And when I was as comfortable as a bird in its nest, I drew the curtains shut with a sudden whoosh. Through my mind’s eye I re-explored the colours and images of the windowsill as my fingers slowly trace the lines. As the engravings directed my touch, I recognised it as the shape of a flower. A rose perhaps? How I love roses: their beautiful elegant petals framing the body, crimson red in colour. I don’t suppose how fortunate I was to be able to see one a day before my accident. I remember the time I lay on the moist grass observing the world around me. And there it was: the silhouette of a proud and fearless being. With its power and elegance, it stood tall and proud. And I know now that many, including those who will not confess, long for such a feeling. That we too could move on in strength and confidence, to forgive ourselves and mend our sorrows. But everything was all but that; and the only thing we could do was live with it.

    The secretive murmuring of children broke my train of thought as they passed from the garden below me. Occasionally I could feel their gaze on me, their snickers, and soon they scuttled off. A solemn mood followed soon after as they disappeared with the thump of the front door. It had occurred to me as soon as I returned that everything had changed. The people, the peace, the whole of society seemed nothing but a stranger to me. They looked but would not see. They heard but would not listen. And with that, they left those like me behind; those like me who will never catch up.