I am silenced by grief, by shadows and blindness and the infernal heat wave that coats my city like an itchy, heavy blanket. In my mind I am a writer, but in reality, I feel myself coming unhinged. I try to climb up through my lethargy and snap my pieces back into place, but the heat pushes me down on the floor, where blindness doesn’t matter and the stillness is intoxicating. If I am perfectly still, the heat won’t touch me and my ghosts can’t find me. If I rise to the occasion of my creative pulse, I may burn up in the face of my fear and the darkness that chases me through the minutes of my life, whispering that I am useless and defective. But, the sacrifice is my voice, and it is a sacrifice I am not yet willing to make.
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.
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.