FeelingsBy Norman Turrell
I feel for my afternoon lesson. Second shelf, fourth book in.
It's a relief to slide the chair out without banging myself. The sentences move faster under my fingers. They said that would come, with time. I still cry. They said that would go, with time.
Ten paces, turn left, seven paces.
Francine will bring my dinner in... I feel the marks on my wrist-watch, two hours. There are speaking timepieces, but I like using this.
One foot up, turn left, follow the neck of the pipe down to the cold tap.
Sometimes, I wish I hadn't been sighted, but then, I wouldn't have the images the books bring back. The psychiatrist was depressingly perky about it, made me feel worse.
Beside the sink, against the wall, largest handle, the sharp bread knife.
I thought about that too. What it would feel like to die. The darkness has already taken me. Am I half way there?
Seven paces, turn right, ten paces. Back to the seat.
I am starting to doubt whether the pictures I see in my mind are just a dream of the way things really look. Maybe that's best. Then I can just be feelings.
This page was amended on 01/12/2011