I See Said The Blind Man

When the light comes on and you can see the room again, everything is as you saw it last, nothing has changed, look, your book is still in the window, feeding on the sun, breathing in it’s solar words. the air kept the smell of sugar suspended to remind you to digest the moment. oh, how hungry I am, your stomach. fill me, please. no longer may I be empty. the walls begin to melt in calories and the roof rains down in a mineral of showers, raining heavy through your eyes. the stuffed animal's hearts start to beat as their veins begin to open. light switch. you need to find the light switch. pans in the kitchen start rattling, light fixtures in the ceiling begin to swing. all the lamps rotate to face you, the plants tip on their own, the soil dragging itself toward you one inch at a time. the oven in you burns brightly, butter melts from your shoulders, sugar sprays from your fingertips. your nuerons begin to glow as time and space make room for you. oh how history is a cavernous thing. when the light goes off, you can’t see the room, and nothing is ever the same again.