via

It is dark, and a bit of light seeps in from outside: soft and yellowish. Everything is wrapped, gently, in shadows. My eyes do not recognize the furniture nor the space. But my memory does. So I translate  the memory of my eyes as sight. Yet I distrust, a little, all that I had fully accepted to be true in the daylight. When all seemed clear, I arrogantly believed that, that which is visible is all that there is. It seems then that in both the light and its absence I am blind, but only in the darkness am I aware of my blindness.

—
Jane