It’s a sign of having aged eyes, you know, that shift of fixation from what cannot be yours—look at you and your tight-clenched fist that can neither give nor receive—to the very sight you overlook, say, the gray curtain before your window that promises great outdoor views and never seems to break it. And so you start seeing, an act of a reaching kind of attention almost too late, till you gaze enough at the bare thing, whatever that is, that has always been a part of you all along like a deep end, a hit home, sending you back to yourself. You then open that hand to release grasped nothingness for more, only closing it to rub your eyes.
Andeng 