My eyes burn, feel swollen and starched this early in the morning. The light through the curtains is like an assault. It is as if all the color and texture in the world has been bleached out. It is the first of my daily reminders that I am different, that I am going blind. I usually lie in bed for a few minutes to allow myself time to adjust to being awake, and then I get up to make sure the curtains are all drawn in the front room; I can’t even look out the window without putting on my sunglasses because it burns so badly. Perhaps vampires really just have RP and not a mythological thirst for blood. I have definitely always been a night person, to the point where my family called me strange; they all love the sun. I came across a photograph of myself recently in which I was a three-year old on the beach squinting from the sun and reaching for my mom’s sunglasses. Even then I wanted out of the glare and perhaps began to long for cloudy skies. You can see why Los Angeles is my nemesis.
I am a writer, going blind in Los Angeles. This blog is my story of a slow approach to darkness as I traverse through the rubble of urban life. It is what I see in the withering spaces of my remaining vision. It is humor and despair and darkness and light. It is what I witness as the world slowly disappears.
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