The prevalent myopia came into my life when the age of seven was blooming. Astigmatic thinking brought around the deterioration of myopia, as well as other ophthalmic disorders. No specific details could be made with my glass off.
My father constantly notifies me about eye-improving solutions. He brought home medicines, scripts of monochromatic practice, and more medicines. His efforts are creditable, but none of them has proved effective. Try as I might, I always fail. It is the feeling that I have never gone to any lengths at all to save the last light of my eyes that drowns me to the pitfall.
Another remarkable thing, in sharp contrast with any enduring, intellectual interest of mine, is that I enjoy the beauty of photographs. At time I empathise with all the subjects inside the pictures, merely by digging deep, gazing at the entrancingly taken photographs. The function of cameras is a great source of interest to me. How the background blurs itself to promote the comeliness of the single, outcasted, yet buldging object mesmerises me.
I was there, standing alone among the waves of the ocean of life pushing me back and forth. I was disappointed about my worsening eye sight and exasperated about my unfilfilled passion for photography. I let them get to me, I let myself tolerate those harsh critism and scorn friends heaped upon me for either viewing the world behind thick glasses, or not being able to fathom the "real" mechanism of photography.
One day I let my glasses slide off my nose. I was letting my eyes be open to the world it had never viewed without the aid of glasses. I saw nothing, as a matter of fact, but only most of the things. I saw something, clearly saw it. It was the focus, the focus I had been pursuing after all the way, the focus I have always attributed to camera work. In the shadowed sky, the upclose object became the center of the whole universeThen suddenly all the surroundings managed to be the blurred. The lights became no longer a point in the air, but phosphenes, circles of bright city lights, each following another, sparkling, glimmering, cheering to my victory, my discovery of such a natural scene in the life I had always been in, but never really lived in.
I was then struck with a question. Did I ever exist to miss out on such a beauty? Was my life mine, or was it faked, copied, mimicked, translated, barbarically, carelessly? How many more are there for me to discover, or there was pretty much it, the apocalypse of my adventure? It dawned on me the fact that things could be easily paired, that they might have been predestined. One failure could not mean anything. Two might not as well, and two failures can lead to one success. One success that one keeps it for himself, making him realize how precious it is that he has made the previous two failures. Should there have been constant triumphs, should there have been overnight success, he would not stand here today, witnessing the power of the universe, its power to pair things randomly with each other.
I now stop wishing for perfection. I wish to be flawed, so that I could see the world blurred, so that I could work my eyes like cameras. Flaws are actually a sign of good luck. My flaws have lead me to my phosphenes - unfocused, entangled, but sprightly, continuous.
