The Quest for Sight

It began, as all tragedies do,

With a nap that went too far.

Not a gentle rest,

But a fall, deep and lawless,

Into the folds of a Sunday afternoon.

The reels had rolled on,

but the watcher had stilled.

I woke with the grace of a potato.

Cloaked in confusion.

The light—too bright.

The hour—unknown.

The room—indifferent to my return.

What day was it?

What year?

Was I still employed?

My mouth tasted like forgotten toast.

Limbs heavy with the weight of slumber,

I blinked

And the world did not blink back.

All edges had fled.

All lines undone.

The curse had returned:

My eyes were missing.

No, not the eyes—

The devices that made sense of them.

My lenses. My light.

My overpriced rectangles of salvation.

I began with the couch—

my last known location.

I pawed at the couch cushions,

Fingers sweeping through crumbs and regret.

No sign of the relics.

Only a hair tie, a rogue peanut,

And something unspeakable I hoped was lint.

was it a coin? A chip? A tiny fossil?

Only shame.

The blanket was next.

I shook it like it owed me rent.

It responded with quiet judgment

and a shower of crumbs

from snacks I swore I hadn’t eaten.

I rose like a deity unfit for resurrection.

Stumbled toward the table—

barefoot, brave, and blind.

A wrong turn,

and,

THE TOE.

Oh, the bloody small toe!

Struck like a gong against the ottoman,

which hadn’t moved in three years.

I collapsed.

Muttered curses last heard in ancient texts.

Then froze.

There! beneath the armchair—

a glint. A shimmer. A holy sign?

I dove. Crawled like a soldier.

Felt victory within reach—

only to clutch…

a spoon.

A cursed, gleaming spoon.

Mocking me with its warped reflection.

Despair now joined the party.

I checked the bookshelf—

because why not let literature bear witness.

I lay down.

Flat on the floor.

Staring upward,

as if the ceiling might pity me.

It didn’t.

Nor did the lamp,

which flickered just to be spiteful.

And then—

just as I began composing my farewell letter

to the world of the sighted—

I saw it.

Half-buried beneath a discarded tote bag,

on the side table’s farthest edge—

dangling like a dare.

As if they had leapt to freedom

and then lost their nerve.

I crawled to them.

Scooped them up like stolen treasure.

Placed them gently on my face.

The world returned.

And it was…

ordinary.

Dusty.

Mildly disappointing.

I sighed.

Poured myself a glass of water.

And vowed never to nap again.

Until next Sunday..