through his eyes I am perfectly average
on occasion, beautiful
eyes closed, I can believe it
my existence is without reflection or candid photographs
with parameters set I am free to feel what my eyes can't see
a silhouette, a shadow, a softened image on a sun-struck window is tolerable, sometimes pleasant
I am whatever normal is
I am not what my eyes see
sight is a gift that fills my soul with more joy than I can bear
people, colors, living things, places
sight turns on me and viciously attacks when it meets a mirror
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