I am filled. Full. To the brim. I thought I was done. Emptied.
To be true, being empty is a relief. There is no more any need to pour. It just sits. Lest we fill again.
Most of us aren’t empty, just full of coagulated blood. Thickened. No flow.
This reads as a bit mystical. Maybe it is, these texts aren’t beholden to a capital I ideology. It will go where it does, it might retreat or retread. Though it’s not some stream of consciousness.
There will be always be ideology. Maybe a better thinker will prescribe me one. But I am broken, my view is broken.
There are minor and major refractions of observation everywhere. A lens has been broken. My old self has been broken. And I must break it further, even if to only see that in front of my broken lens was always a thick frosted glass. Always dulling the world to me. I see figures, vagued. They are not vague, perhaps, but the act of putting up the glass has made them vague. The figures aren’t vague, I look vaguely. The lens I wore, managed to sharpen the silhouttes, solidifying them; Lessening possibilities.
Now that it’s cracked, I see variations, not infinite, but many. The cracks are the most wonderous. Like permanent lightening. The closest to real light, in my dulled lighthouse. Only like lightening in their distortion.
A blindfold is kept; if I were to venture out, I would wear it. The frosted glass is for my protection, so would be the blindfold. I must assume that. You dull, when the real thing is too much. I must insist that in this note, I am just a being of eyes. Folding all my senses into a narrative is too much. Even one sense, dulled, is too much.
What lies beyond my lighthouse. I don’t know. Maybe I will wear the blindfold, go outside. Pure light, to a being of eyes would be death. Pure anything would be death.

My broken lens, my frosted glass and my crumbling lighthouse. It throws light indiscriminately onto the vast ocean. I note down what I see. At it’s mercy. These flashes of light though lend me some strange strength. I am vigilant, I spring up when light does flash. At least I am not made complacent by the light that continuously surveys, atleast I am not lulled into my motions. The broken lighthouse gives me an idea of shock to the sense. I know at least some disruption. It’s just my default vigilance than clarity of light that provides insights for my notes.
So I pour out. I overflow. But I stay in the lighthouse, the light of day, the darkness of night still are far off. I will stop perhaps.. when light stops flashing, when the lighthouse crumbles, taking me with it. For now, I cannot venture out.
I sit here, being of eyes, knowing that my blood flows.