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The Art of Sight
I am invisible.
Oh, I'm sure you could see me, if you tried.
But why would you?
After all, what is the difference between not seeing something… or not wanting to?
My hand is fading. I will have to write with my left. I am not completely invisible to myself, you see.
Visibility is a simple thing.
It cannot be taken, won, or bestowed.
Some say that we are born with a certain amount of the stuff, and when it is used up… well, you see me here before you.
It's simple, really.
The joke that must be repeated by another before it is funny.
The slight grimace before a sentence escapes my lips.
An aversion of the eyes.
Simple… if you want to understand.
But what would you gain by knowing?
There's no reason you should sacrifice your valuable time for me.
No reason anyone should, in fact.
There are some that say that being visible to one, or two , is enough.
That one can… survive.
But ambition is a poison, and this one seeps virulently through my slowly transparent veins.
My torso is nearly gone. Soon, it will be my neck, my chin, and my head – and I will be invisible, even to myself.
But there is another option.
I don't intend to become an invisible wanderer, forever yearning for impossible approval.
I am a person of action, you see.
And I know of others – others who have escaped the horrors of an invisible life.
A glass of liquid, a pill, an appreciable amount of rope…
Everyone will see you.
They will have no choice.
My lips are beginning to blurr – soon, the process will complete itself.
I have to go now.
Maybe you'll see me soon.
You might not have a choice.