bLiND SpoTs

It is a little past 1am, and the night air is cool. Cold, in fact, my arms are sporting goosebumps. I hear crickets and cars. And the voices of toads after a day full of rain.

My spectacles cracked the other day. A deep angry line runs right through the middle of my right lens. I now peep at the world through two fragments of the lens hanging precariously together by the force of the frame.

And my blind spot prevents me from getting too giddy. The crack is so right in my face that I sometimes don’t see it. Like a lot of things I don’t see about myself. Perhaps because I don’t want to acknowledge that they are there. Perhaps I don’t know they are there.

But it’s important to confront your blind spots every once in a while.