On Thursday, I had enough available time to meander around my neighborhood. I went to the bank, had a cheeseburger, and visited a small optical joint to price eye exams. The staff of women were sterile and off-putting, but I still scheduled an appointment for an exam for the following Friday. I continued my curious stroll, did some window shopping, and found myself in another optical spot with a cheaper deal and friendlier people. My vulnerable stasis that afternoon allowed me to be coaxed right into the eccentric optometrist's chair. He was a delight. Erratic conversations about poetry, colleges, and my eyes. A writer himself, when I told him that I'd only begun writing mature poetry last year, it provoked a discussion of the journey of writers and the art form of prose and how's it's a bit of battle to allow oneself to truly create a rhythmic voice. Being a writer all of my life, I'd always found poetry to be slightly insurmountable. Concerning expression, he said, "The configuration of our psychosis needs this outlet, otherwise you would produce angst. A-N-G-S-T." He spelled it.
At the start of our conversation, he informed me that I don't blink fully. He said that based on their size and shape, rarely do my eyes completely close during the blink reflex. Thus, explaining my regularly dry eyes and why I absently tend to sleep with them partially open. Based on these facts, my eyes never really close.
My eyes are always open.
That is, I could see the end of my entanglement, but I chose to ignore the knot.