Her head on the pillow, she opens her eyes slowly.  She looks out over the stretch of fabric cover and allows her eyes to remain blurred.  Her first glance of the world, seen in bokah. 

A fallen eyelash catches her eye and she allows herself to focus.  A single eyelash, blackened by mascara, resting peacefully an inch away from those left in place.  

She feels the air from the fan gently caress her cheek as she blinks the morning clear.  As she turns to face the ceiling, she breathes in deep.  I could lay here forever, she thinks.  With the world out of focus and the sound of the breeze across my face, I don’t need to move. 

But she has to move.  She has to get up and face what’s out there and that means she has to focus.  But her eyes don’t focus themselves.  They won’t.  Can’t.  They’re watching the blades of the fan, blinking slowly, and no amount of mental effort can pull them away. 

Without shifting her gaze, she blindly searches her bedside table with her hand.  She knocks around her phone, a pair of earplugs, her clock, until her fingers settle on her glasses.   She closes her fist, reluctant to bring them to her face.  When she puts them on, there’s no hiding behind the haze anymore.  

The fog will be gone and the day will be alive.


6 thoughts on “Focus

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