Page 31 - AAEPC Kaleidoscope Magazine Vol.4

Monologue
- Di Mo
AA in Cultural Studies (CCCU)- year 1
I sat by the window, waiting for the light to fade. I thought that as the light gradually darkened, my vision would gradually lose the ability to recognize. But that doesn’t seem true. There’s more to vi- sion than to worry. Maybe memories, expectations, desires, fears.
If you can experience the vision of people who were born blind, you might be able to really tell the difference between “vision” and “visual memory.” But there was nothing I could do. After I closed my eyes, my “vision” was filled with many thoughts. Like the tears of the tide, gradually seeping into the edge of each of the extremely dark spheres. Is this a vision or just my visual frustration?
In front of my eyes, the flower is unrecognizable, the road is unrecognizable, the mountain is un- recognizable. However, I know it isn’t just because the light dimming. It is the mood in which I sit
by the window, waiting for everything to pass away; The flower withers, the road covers with sand, the mountain collapses. In a roar close to the ocean, we gaze at the crumbling cities, empires, monu- ments to the great...
After I was rejected by a loved one, I trained myself to reduce the brightness of my dark vision. I would like to see the city where I live in the dim light, as if I have seen many illusions in meditation. There is no clear difference between illusion and reality. Most of us are bound to fall into illusion. Because it’s almost a reality. The druggist feels a reality in an illusion; The murderer feels a reality in the killing; The usurper of power feels a sense of reality in victory; The lover feels a reality in the illusion of love.
Why did I say it was an illusion? The bone-tingling pleasure of addiction, the pleasure of killing, the struggle for power, the possession of wealth, the struggle for love, in the city where I live, even as I dim my vision, I see so many realities, so real, so vivid, so full of scorn for my “illusion.”
I sit alone by the window, listening to the evening tide seeping in every sandy field. There is a muf- fling sound, softly permeating the spaces between the sand, as if it is going to make every empty crevice pour into the dark water.
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