“The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.” Oscar Wilde
This amuses me. The slow sloppiness of the body’s droop into a new – an older – age is too inevitable to rage against. But if there’s one thing I wish I could appeal against, it is the onset of age-related sight issues.
I cannot love my spectacles yet. One day I will, I know, because they will be all that links me to a page of text. But for now, I resent them.
They fog up when I drink something hot while I’m reading. They get squashed off kilter when I put my face on the pillow in order to read lying on my side. They are never where I need them.
When they’re on and each letter asserts itself from the murk, I forget I have specs. I get up to do something else and bounce off furniture like a drunk – because my glasses are for reading only.
I read and someone comes in to say something. I look up at them and a wave of nausea sweeps over me as they wobble in the distance. I must learn to peer over the top of the rims, like a stern librarian.
I read all the time, and everything. My eyes and alphabetical formations are locked in an ancient relationship in which I have little say.
And now this has come between them: the failing of sight.