To see or not to see
© Mats Kristiansson 1995
With my eyes closed, I am resting in smell of daffodils and tulips, close nettles and remote birch leaves. Now, another smell is closing in. I do not recognize it. What is it? Coffee? Or socks worn a week?
The smell is fading. Was it now? With my eyes still closed, I am not sure.
The grass is sharp as knives, and the nettles hurt, but I do not care. The time of waves of laugh from the leaves of the birches is only once a year; summer is only a short moment of exposed skin and hidden feet.
I want to see bees hunting among the petals. I want to see the birches dance in the sun and lift their petticoats. I want to see drinking of coffee and dirty socks. Therefore, I open my eyes ...
How could I forget. My eyes were stolen long ago; I can see nothing but memories.
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