It hurts, the darkness I see. It's like being trapped in the darkest night, and yet there is no beauty in the stars or the moon. It is as if a switch was flicked, and my life deemed it no longer fit for me to see. So now I must find my beauty in words. Not ones with which I speak, but ones carefully placed onto paper, carefully and artfully crafted to convey beauty in mind's eye. The only eye with which I may see.
And then there is him. I can see him, not how you would see, but how he is described, for I once new the joys of colour and shape, saw the beauty as real, not as just a thought. But now there is him, and though words describe beauty, they cannot describe the one thing that I miss most. The true beauty of love. Though I try, I may convey beauty in the words I know, but none convey love.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
He means everything to me, but the beauty in his life compares little to mine, for he sees the beauty of dew on the bright green blades of grass. He sees the graceful bird turning a wing to the gentle winds. He sees the river stones, polished surfaces reflecting the warm sun. But yet, there is something he lacks as well. He may hear the words they speak, weaving a story, but though he can place ink to paper, he shall never have the joy of speaking the beauty that he sees. He sees, he writes, he describes, but he cannot tell of the lovely dew drops, or of the graceful bird, or of the smooth river stones. He must be content to sit. To watch. To write. We know now. Life is too short to take the few things that can truly show beauty for granted.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date:
He writes the beauty he sees, from the sparkle of the dew to the smoothness of the stones, makes it so that I may read it through the few senses I have left, then I say it. Say it for the world to hear, because so many people wish not to see the beauty, not to read it, but to hear it. Imagine it. Theywant to hear the steady pace of a voice that tells of wondrous things. And yet, when I read it, I cannot truly read it, as I have never experienced the sparkle of the morning dew. I've never seen my reflection in the polished surface of the stone. I have not seen the graceful bird take flight. I have not seen beauty. Sometimes, you need to see to feel.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
And as I rise the next morning, something awaits me that I have not seen. Sight still gone, however I see brilliant colour in place of the deafening black. Warm reds and oranges, sweet yellows and purples. All those colours that have been described as feelings, and now I can capture the feeling for myself. And then I hear it. Not his voice, but a sweet sound of melodic humming in a tune that conveys thoughts, not just meaningless words. We are seeing, we are saying, and yet, we aren't. But the feeling, the beauty, all of the lovely things we were missing once are there. No longer does he need to write the beauty he sees. No longer do I need to say things I haven't really felt.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
But it isn't the end. In a brilliant burst of blinding light I see. It doesn't matter what I see, but I know that sight itself is beautiful. And so long ago was his voice singing to me softly, and now he stops humming and whispers to me, "Never again will I need to write beauty. Now I may say it, may share it with the world." And he grabs my hand, our fingers lacing together as we do the one thing we have always wanted to do. Together we sit and admire our first sunrise together, and we sing as loud as we want, not caring if anyone hears. Our voices mingle as we sing, and our eyes flicker towards the rabbit darting from behind a bush, the birds in the sky, and the flowers all around us. Beauty may be conveyed with words, but this is not beauty. This is love.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Yeah. I just did that. Don't ask me why Sub is only blind. I just needed him to be so that... well, I just needed him to be. So... feelz. I wrote a somewhat happy one! Are you proud of me senpai!? No? Okay... just...
Well, if you liked it, leave a vote, comment, etc. It's appreciated (and a lot of the comments are fun to read)!
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One Shots: My Mind at its StrangestFanfiction
Only about half of my story ideas get written down, and only one third of them are put into a full length story, so I thought 'why not make a one shots book for the other two thirds of those story ideas?' PLEASE NOTE: Often my one shots will be only...