A writer, a human, can only be who they will be. I may be sick. I have, like most, taken for granted, this ability of sight, never honestly trying to understand the blind, merely congratulating them with surviving. The fact is, that many of the most pure and gifted of artists who have ever lived have lost their ability which makes their passion so universal, their eyes; this that we can universally speak with to any human, even without language, and they remembered what it looked like, even after the sunspots had faded, and they continued to show us what we couldn’t see, even those with a perfect view, and they did this, even when they couldn’t see the rock that we continued to trip over. How I’ve taken my eyes for granted, but haven’t we all?