Each crack, fissure, fracture, and rift embedded in the sclera is a new piece of thread, joining to travel through the needle’s eye in order to stitch together the spine of the book.
Our eyes were not included among the other organs to enable we gain basic humane features, as 285 million people that submerge this land misleading images and stereotypes are blind. So what are eyes if we cannot truly see?
Eyes for those 1 million that are not sightless, do not serve as the window panes to the soul or the gateways to their existence. Eyes are pages. Some ink spilled, crinkled, ripped, torn and even filled pages.
Each person holding a new title, a new page number, a whole different story.
Words only the sighted can see, consisting of views pigmented with divergent colors; brown, green, blue, hazel, grey all-new tributaries to the river of thread that fuses these spiels to compose a book.
A book even the unsighted can read, not through brail or sound, but through breathing. Every exhales touching a letter of the title, inhaling to reveal what your life is tasting.
Exhaling again to gather what this book is all about, finding the edge with the tips of your breath, inhaling as the book opens. Life. Only now you see it, you can feel the remains of your breath on each eyelash that held a letter.
You can feel the warmth of curiosity that prized open your eyelids to reveal the pages that hide inside your iris.
From the day you are born, you begin to seam together with your pages, the book that can only be tethered with when they look into your eyes.