I am nearsighted.
Beyond that, one of my eyes sees farther than the other.
I’m still not convinced which eye sees the most.
When I close my eyes and drift, I’m inclined to believe one sees farther on the astral plane. If I could calibrate it perfectly, I could see spiral galaxies whirling like grains of sand on the shores of deep waters. I could see life arising from primordial darkness.
I could see stars.
As I finish writing this novel, I see these wonders, I hear the music of the spheres, and I cannot stop smiling. There are tears also; this is a human story.
They say you write best when you write what you know. For me, joy comes most oft when mixed with pain. The gift of life tinctured with mortality.
I can’t help but wonder. Do these interesting side effects — these coincidences — both inconvenience and define us?