ISSUE: Summer 2002
Sometimes confusion was a veil across his eyes. Then what he loved
became suspect, what he had disliked he now despised. Colors grew
darker, sounds sharper. In his blindness, he trusted nothing and he
struck out at whoever came too close. Better to be alone than
betrayed; better to have no one trespass on the space he saw as his.
So he hid and gnawed himself and was unhappy. But these times
didn’t last long—perhaps a week, no more. When he was returned to
the world, he expected his friends and family to celebrate his
recovery, now that his love had been restored. Surely, they would
welcome his homecoming. Instead, they kept their distance, seeing
him at last in clarity as lately he had seen them in confusion.
