I once knew a blind man with perfect vision.
He was late forties, a heavy-set.
He was bald and wore a full beard.
Drank scotch and smoked cigarettes.
His eyes looked like anyone else’s eyes.
He himself looked like any other man.
But this man was different.
He was always happy.
Always hopeful.
Always adventurous, charming, and compassionate.
I didn’t get it.
How could someone be so positive in a world of complete darkness?
How could someone experience beauty without sight?
And how could someone live without ever experiencing beauty?
Then it hit me.
Beauty itself is irrelevant.
Because beauty is nothing without meaning.
It’s then that I realized in everywhere I found beauty, I had lacked finding meaning.
Unlike myself, the blind man found meaning in everything.
He was able to truly experience beauty.
So I guess in the end I am the blind man.
And he is the seeing man.
