By Anne Elizabeth Sheu
Darkness. Everlasting darkness. Every which way I turn. I stretch out a trembling hand and reach out for something—for anything. All I grab is mist. I am adrift in a sea of nothingness. I scream out in panic and hear footsteps running toward me. A cool hand restrains my thrashing and gently brushes away a few wisps of hair on my face. I do not cry. I am too terrified to cry. I clutch at the hand—the only material thing left in the world—and beg hoarsely to know what has become of me. I jump at the sound of my own voice, superimposed upon the darkness. The reply of the unseen is calm and soothing. You are sick, The Voice seems to say. You are sick, and you must be patient. Little by little, through overheard snips of hushed, whispered conversations outside my door, it dawns on me. I am blind. My family is gone. Akin to none, I am now alone. The house went up in flames—claiming three lives and wiping out the world as I knew it. My eyes have not escaped the smoky hellfire. I will never see again. The voice, the first voice that cut through my consciousness those awful moments when I awoke, came to me again. It could have been a few hours later or it could have been a few months later—I had lost the will to keep track. The Voice stroked my hand and told me that I was better now, that I would be taken to a nice place with other children. To play with, The Voice said. No! I said. My temper tantrums occurred regularly, even daily, but nothing compared with my kicking and screaming when they came to take me away. No! I shrieked. Other voices—harried voices—pleaded and cajoled, but I struggled all the more. Then, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and I knew The Voice would not leave me. I stopped kicking. They took me to the unknown. An environment with strange corners and alien objects, the unknown was fearsome. I had fallen. Again. The Voice picked up and cradled my huddled form at the bottom of the stairs. I was crying with helplessness, with frustration, with absolute despair. With my head snuggled next to The Voice’s strong, unyielding chest, I listened and tried to understand as The Voice taught me. Use your heart, The Voice said, sounding deeper and more resonant. Use your heart. Reach out with your heart and your senses. Let your senses see for you. Let your senses be your eyes. I tried. Gradually, I stopped falling. But something was wrong. I had also stopped thinking. I moved like a zombie, slept like a log. No flights of fancy in the daytime; no coming of dreams during the night. There is no more beauty in the world, I replied to The Voice’s insistent inquiries. The Voice said nothing more. But the next day, The Voice brought me an easel and a box of paints. Leading my hand to the overflowing box of vibrant colors, The Voice told me that many people believe that our lives are a blank canvas. What we decide to put on the canvas is our own choice. We can stroke heavy black lines across it or we can cover the canvas with all the colors of the rainbow. It can be beautiful, The Voice said. All was silent. Suddenly, I swept the box of paints on the floor and ferociously ripped the canvas to shreds. A face distorted with anger whirled on The Voice. How can I paint without seeing? Of what use are the paints and the canvas without the eyes to see? It’s all but ebony paint on black canvas to me. Just ebony paint on black canvas. For the first time, The Voice was reproachful. Have you forgotten everything I taught you? The Voice asked. You must learn to use your heart. You have an advantage over everyone else—the power to tune in to your inner-self. Losing the ability to see the outside world is precisely the reason you can detach yourself from all mundane matters. By locking yourself in your own mind and heeding only your heart can you eventually gain the power to step out of the restricted boundaries of the conscious. Slowly, I pick up a paintbrush. The Voice puts a new square of canvas on the easel and arranges the kaleidoscope of paints in an order I would remember. And I start painting. In total darkness, I try to make my piece of the world into something other than ebony paint on black canvas. My paintbrush flies across the canvas, pausing now and then to be dipped in a bottle of paint. There is harmony in the universe and peace in my heart. I paint and paint and paint. * In time, people from all over the world gravitate to the small, run-down orphanage. They want to see the little blind child whose paintings are works of wonder. Marveling at the indescribable beauty they see, people ask how she accomplished it. Just close your eyes and paint with your unconsciousness, she tells them, use your heart and your painting will be—“Beautiful,” The Voice whispered. The little girl nodded and smiled and painted on. a
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The Taida Student Journal has been active since 1995 with an ever-changing roster of student journalists at NTU. Click the above link to read about the authors Archives
May 2024
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