I don’t remember much—except falling asleep that is. I recall reaching for my glasses in the morning on the bedside table. I thought that maybe my eyes were sealed shut, it was spring and allergies were a consistent nuisance. I tripped reaching for a wash cloth in the bathroom to clear my face. It was futile. Darkness had impregnated my vision, leaving a perpetual night. I spent ten minutes in the confusion finding the buttons for the emergency number on my phone. There were ambulances, sirens. Rough hands and a stretcher. The sounds of a hospital. Then total block of all my senses.
In my other life, as I like to call it now, I was a photographer. It was my keen sight for the beautiful, the compelling that kept cash in my pocket. That paid my rent for that expensive apartment. It really was too spacious for me.
But I’m stubborn as hell. I wasn’t going to give up. I discovered that the only time I found my vision again was in my dreams. I saw everything beautiful once more. And as a member of this fine society, I did what was only logical.
I learned braille. I took classes in typing across those raised boards, my fingers became acute. All my senses became acute.
Now my photographs are my words. Typed across the page. I describe my dreams, those stunning lands that I travel to in the night. And much better than a photo—my stories are living.
Literally, by losing what I found most crucial—my wildest dreams have come true.
It’s funny how things turn out. The good always beats out the bad.
See you in dreamland.