Margaret Alice Second

(24 January 1961 / South Africa)

Blurred Vision [REVISED]


I listen to Thomas Otten, blurred vision, can’t see the
miracles of life around me, wondering where he found
those melodies; my mind covered in lead, cut off from
the world by a glass wall, soul missing or dead - why,
like a criminal, do I hide these symptoms - though it’s

A crime to feel this bad in our great World. Feelings
and awareness have fled, thick chain tautens with the
daunting thoughts caging my head, discomfort denies
ideas through which escape was effected in the past -
attack in my head hammering at the back of my skull

This litany of sad symptoms explains why I can’t tell
colleagues my feelings, too melodramatic for this little
office where they work industriously while I’m lurking
behind, scared to be seen failing and blind. Moving
pain to another location would help, with chocolate

so sweetly easing depression, allowing a radiance to
surface like swirling bubbles in a pool; a pace change
& throbbing in my head could be bearable, attempting
self-medication preferable to sitting here with nothing
but red-hot discomfort entertaining a feverish, itching

mind, complementing fuzzy images; it means rigorous
checking is too far-fetched an idea for making sure I’ve
made no mistakes - feeling much too tired to care how
grammar rules are observed - or broken - or not, in a
text composed from blurred vision…

5 November 2013


[ORIGINAL: ]

Blurred vision - cannot see the miracles of life around
me - listening to Thomas Otten - wondering where he
found these melodies, cut off from the world by a glass
wall, mind covered by lead, soul missing or dead, why
hide these symptoms like a criminal

Though it IS a crime to feel this bad in a wonderful world,
all feelings and sensations fled, a thick chain encircling
my head tautening with every positive thought, discom-
fort overrides every idea through which escape had
been effected before – head subjected to

A hammering at the back of my skull - this litany of sad
symptoms makes it clear why I can’t tell my colleagues
how I feel, sounds too melodramatic for this little office
where they are industriously working while I’m lurking
behind, scared to be seen falling and blind

Moving pain to another location would also help, any sweet
chocolate lessens depression, allows a few bright moments
to surface like frothy bubbles in a deep dark pool, a change
of pace and the throbbing in my head could become a lot
more bearable, any attempt at self-medication

Is better than sitting here with nothing but red-hot discomfort
to entertain my feverish, itching mind and complement blurry
images which means checking is too far-fetched an idea for
making sure I made no mistakes - feeling much too tired
to care how grammar rules are observed or broken

In a text composed with blurred vision…

4 November 2013

Submitted: Monday, November 04, 2013
Edited: Monday, November 04, 2013

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