Unbounded

Seasons change as quickly as people do. The cycle continues, but every season is different. Some summers are hotter than the previous years, or the rain pours harder than the usual. New plants grow and develop slowly, then their blossoms wither. The plant turns from healthy green to dry, dead brown. Thus, the beautiful bush becomes a patch of unoccupied soil, like a grave meant for a human body.

Our senses are our weaknesses…

This was how he thought, of both people and plants – disposable. That is, until he noticed something different about the fence outside his window. His room looked out over the front yard, facing the street out front. He could see the fish pond, and the fence where his home ended.

Sure, I’m using my sense of sight and my sense of touch to write this. Sure, you’re reading this as well with your sense of sight. But how do you know you’re really reading this? Colors are simply what your brain interprets. For all we know, orange could be black, red could be green, and that something, anything could really even be nothing.

Sliding into a pair of sandals, he walked down towards the fence, goosebumps rising along his arms. The sun was concealed by a blanket of silvery clouds, and the wind was brisk and cold.

Blind people are a different breed. They wouldn’t know what a color is. Thus, they would be able to dream up colors that we, who can see, will never be able to think about. The blind can see; really see.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, “Hi!” right into his ear. She was standing beside him, her long black hair ruffled as though she hadn’t bothered to brush it, and she wore her usual cheeky smile. “I see you’ve finally found the honeysuckle.”

“..Honeysuckle?” he wondered aloud, with his brown eyes running over the plant.

She ran a finger through her hair, looking confused. “Are you saying you’ve never had honeysuckle? It’s like candy.” She said, grinning.

Eat the flower? He wondered, picking a pale yellow flower with slightly wilted petals.

“Now, just take out the white tube-y thing and…” She didn’t get to finish; he had already stuffed the flower into his mouth, chewing it before the bitter taste hit him. He gagged, spitting out its remnants.

For you see, those without senses are not limited by reality, not limited by their perceptions, by their misconceptions.

“Ack! That stuff’s nasty!” He yowled at her, glaring at her and whacking her shoulder.

We are limited by what we sense. By what we see, hear, feel, smell, and taste. By reality.

“That’s not how it’s done, silly! Here, you take out this part...” She slid the white stem from the flower’s base, slowly as she could. “Open your mouth and close your eyes.”

Instead of the gagging sensation of choking on dirt covered worn flesh, he felt a single drop of water hit his tongue. It tasted nothing like water; sweet, and unlike many of the things he had tried out during his lifetime. All natural, no preservatives, no artificial coloring. Pure sweetness.

Senses can be, and are, a weakness. For those without senses know so much more about the unknown. Yet, we try to coach them. We take them, and dump them into reality, or what is a reality to us, and not to them.

He opened his eyes, with cheeks slightly flushed. “After twenty-two years, I’ve never noticed this in my own backyard. Thanks.”

Imagination, un-inhibition are what’s important. And only those without senses can fully experience it.

“It’s a really hardy plant; I’ve even seen it growing out of sidewalk cracks. It just doesn’t die.” She grinned, and reached for another flower.

All your perceptions of reality – all the things you’ve seen; all the things you’ve heard; all the sweetness and bitterness you’ve tasted; all the warmth that you’ve felt before, are they truly bliss, or just something you hold on to, you believe in, like the feeling of comfort from hiding behind a warm safety blanket?

He then turned an even deeper red than before. Finally, he mouthed another ‘thank you’, and walked off, leaving her alone as he thought about that moment, replaying it over and over in his head.

Isn’t it time to let these go and to just close your eyes, to really see; to cover your ears, to really hear; to numb yourself, to really taste sweetness; and to hurt yourself, to really feel?

That was the day he changed his philosophy in life.

Isn’t it time to truly blossom?