Blindsight by Chris Harris

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SUMMARY: A story told from within the twilight zone between subjective and objective reality

Blindsight

In the cigarette smoke there were pictures. And as the smoke rose and dissipated, so the pictures faded and were gone. At the window a view of the old gate in the field unused.
Beyond the gate the fields rolled on forever. These were the meadows for the pathways of the travelers or perhaps they were pathways for the meadows themselves untraveled.
In the shadows of the sun lay memories. As within the pictures of the smoke or in the vision of an eye still closed, they wandered. Were the memories real with myself the shadows image. Or were the pictures, the viewer and the space between them, all but nothing.
I knew there was purpose in my presence here and understood its gravity. Yet how to perform this role or roles and for whom. What wisdom required that my thoughts alone should ponder such meanings. And why was I so haunted with memories yet without recollection.
This house immortal, having no soul to shed, had itself fathered no dreams. To arrive, if one had ever left, was to dream and to fill the space of the void before and after. A place of one but many rooms, of one but many people and one but many times.
From the fields a view of the house gave a view of the house with a view of the fields. At the place in between, a view of both the house and the fields within the greater space of the rumoured grounds. And among those hedges and corners were places forever unvisited, places that would defy intrusion and escape delineation.
Above and among us there were others, like images in the mirror of a room with or without such furnishings. Were we but to become them in such service or purpose as reversal, and would such combinations add or subtract to imperfection.
In the skies of the dawn came other vessels with cargoes. In the days of their journeys were the years of their leaving. Departing nameless and without destination, devoid of purpose or fanfare they came. To leave is but to sow the seeds of all arrival.
There were infinite and inevitable choices here. All could and would be made, or not. But of course it could never be any other way. All choice or change in direction could only ever, both support, and outlaw any variation to the path as yet untrod.
For each road a beginning and an end. For even as the last step retraces the first as yet untaken, both shall falter. And if all journeys or parts of journeys were at once all joined, then this house, the ships at dawn and the fields containing both, might then have meaning.
Eyes to observe or observations for eyes. But what of the point on the surface of an eye in between the two states. And what of the eye itself at this distance. Was the mind of the lens within the brain beyond this tissue, or could it be that the perceived view had created this and other eyes to view itself as it wished to be seen.
First came desire. Out of desire came hope followed by belief and then reality. In the shadow of desire was dread. And in the shadow of dread came all fear. To believe in the fear of dread is to know its reality.
In the times of the house, if the house were to have such times, were the times of us all.

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