being blind - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Blind from birth, the spring was all about the sounds, the tastes and the rising air temperature for Mila. With keen awareness of the frigidity of winter rain, she knew before her keen sighted friends when the winter season was in transition. She felt the breeze kiss her more warmly and let her hands explore the overhanging branches of neighbourhood trees to find the swelling buds- buds that would soon crack open to release the soft papery leaves within.The myriad of verdant hues from the grass to the leaves above were lost to her; but their gentle fragrance never was. She would take a new lush blade or leaf and rub it between her fingers, releasing its perfume. She knew the flowers of her neighbourhood by their scents, either that which they released to the damp air or by crushing a petal to release the aromatic sap. She knew the call of each bird species and marked the progress of the season with their song.
Lila lived for music. If she could hear it played live she began to tingle, even for a solitary instrument. There was something about the vibrations that felt so heavenly, as if it were liquid energy seeping right through her skin. Her mother said it was because she was blind, that her mind over compensated, but Lila swore she'd be just the same way with or without sight. Perhaps that's why she learnt to play so well, she felt it, craved it, expressed emotions better than any of her peers.
Shadows of light and dark were all that Sarah's eyes could detect. She knew day from night and proximity to a window on a sunny day; once in a while Tom would show her the smudge of the moon on a clear night. Without colours in her world, she loved texture, temperature and fragrance - loving the changes of the seasons for these simple joys. Beyond that she needed to touch, to be wrapped in Tom's arms at the end of each day, listening to the thud of his heart. Never once had he made anything of her blindness, she was just his sweetheart that had become his wife, special, treasured.
There were nights Hans dreamed in such vivid detail that when he woke he was confused, forgetting for a fraction of a second that his sight was gone. For the minutes that followed he felt the grief all over, the loss of things he never even considered missing. He'd never been one to dwell on flowers, the shape of a tree or passing clouds - poetry hadn't been his thing. He'd been all action, all hero, never slowing for even a day. Once the sadness became less acute he'd reach for his cane and slowly tap his way to the washroom he could remember but no longer enjoy. The walls were golden stone, the floor tiles the colour of summer baked earth, the fixtures white porcelain. He'd never see his own aging, forever thirty-six in his minds eye, though his fingers would tell him of the wrinkles and hair loss in due course. Part of him wondered if the dreams would change, if one day they'd be the same monochrome shadows of his days...
Pascal let his fingers follow the brail, his skin moving lightly over the bumps. As he read, the ticking clock became a metronome of the library chatter and hubbub - a steady beat behind the melodic laughter of children. The carpet smelt more stale than usual, perhaps because Pascal was accustomed to coming earlier in the week, closer to when Mrs Vaughn had vacuumed and replaced the flowers at the reception desk. Yet there was something else, a tincture in the air he couldn't quite place.
Caspian stops to catch his breath, one arm on the gnarled bark of a park tree. He lets his eyes wander to the bench on which he first kissed Cindy, and on it sits an old man. Though he faces the lake, doubtless listening to the ducks and the traffic that passes nearby, he can't possibly see the water... or anything else for that matter. His eyes move independently of one another from side to side; by his side sits a golden retriever in full harness, placidly waiting. Caspian smiles, like him this man is here for life's simple joys - fresh air, a closeness to community, to commune with nature. Break time is soon over and he runs onward to loop the lake one more time.
In my rage I was blind to you, to the delicate petals of your heart and soul. I assumed I was right when I had no real reason to. The words you spoke in such well intentioned purity triggered something in me that came from fear. I guess it is the way we were raised. The words that calm you, scare me... and the words that calm me scare you. So there were were in opposite camps, suddenly blind to each other's good hearts and building barricades instead of bridges. Then I saw your soul in your eyes and new in a moment that we, in very different ways, both wanted the same thing but were lost in how to get there, blind to the paths yet trying to see. It was only when I let the love back in that I saw a path for us... we both wanted to do what was best for everyone, to protect kids, to have a safe society... That's when I knew we were destined to find that answer together and realise that with love we gain a new kind of sight, that it is a sort of illumination.