On a sunny day with light steps if the pavement is clear, I like to walk with my eyes closed. I pour trust into my feet, spilling it out of the holes where my laces loop. Vision flickers through my lashes. Light blurs and bleeds through the fine hair as I doubt my direction; but my feet know their home.
When I can’t trust a reflection or photos for true identity, I like to look at my own face. Alternatively closing each lid, I see my nose from two camera angles. I see the rise of my peach cheekbones. If I stick my tongue out far enough, his little pink head greets me with a surprise of existence.
On a rainy day, when every game is played and every book read, I like to look at the world upside down. My head lolls from the corners of couch cushions. Light-bulbs illuminate the floor and each door frame must be stepped over. A pregnant throb pulsates behind the sockets. If our camera eyes were unaligned by our mind, we would forever be stepping on the ceiling; narrowly avoiding floating off into the sky.
When I wake and shadowed curtains say the day is still arriving, I like to play tricks on my eyes. With a wiggle and flick of the finger, I can’t keep up. Lingering lines of where my fingers once were tell me of their motion. But I will never see each step.
When I close my eyes, I like to look at the insides of my eyelids. When the light shines, they glow golden with veins and flesh; but when it is dark, I see pictures. Shape-shifting kaleidoscopes of colour etch spirals through the charged blackness. Sometimes I like to open them, and see how nothing changes.