Friday, March 4, 2011


I have floaters.

They are pieces, strands, and bits of organic cells and tissue which float around in the vitreous of my eyes. I don't know why they're there, I don't remember when they quite first appeared, but they've formed sometime in my past and is irreversible.

Having floaters is not a vital part of who I am, but nevertheless it is always going to be part of who I am. I cannot, however, let my floaters distract me. They will--but I should never give them too much concentration.

If I distract myself with things that float by in front of me I may lose focus and probably will trip on stairs, drive over someone, run into walls, or walk into street signs; I need to see past it all and focus on what's really in front of me now.

Although this does not mean its not real, or not important; the truth is it is less important, and there are other things of real importance I have really in front of me.

(On a point of technicality: It is possible to "fix" my floaters...I can surgically replace the vitreous humour and risk more floaters, I can surgically remove both eyes containing the floaters and give up sight, I can request a lobotomy and forget altogether what floaters are!)

Friday, February 25, 2011

Painted White Door

A man is approached by a painted white door. He is intrigued. Perplexed. He examines every slight ridge and indentation left by the roller, every bulge of excessive drops of paint, every smudge incurred before it fully dried, dust and fibers forever sealed into the paint, the occasional scratch, the occasional hole. Aghast is he--having never noticed the so much more to the simple painted white door. How will he be, if he ever sees what's behind.