How do you live in a landscape so vastly changed?
Mostly, it’s my vision that’s impared in this new landscape. Or, perhaps it’s the landscape that changes depending on who is around or what my emotions are doing. Either way, things look ‘normal’ but also not ‘normal’. I can open my eyes and see things through clear eyes. And then I blink and everything is..have you ever seen photographs from the 1970s that have yellowed with time? Things are that shade of yellow–worn with time, yet no time has passed.
“Do you see this?” I ask others around me and instead of ‘yes’ or ‘no’, I get pat responses like ‘I’m sorry”, “This must be so hard” and “I can’t imagine”. What are they talking about? Can’t they see that the world has changed vastly?
Look at the sky, it’s entirely a different shade of blue. That yellow has made it a bizarre shade of green. And the clouds are no longer round and soft; they have become jagged, shattered the moment I discovered you were gone.
Mostly, it’s just getting used to it, but it’s difficult because the way the world looks changes without warning. And the sound.
Have you ever had your ears pop and sound like they are completely stuffed with cotton and there’s a high pitched whining? That’s the sound that comes with the 1970s yellow landscape with razor edged clouds.
It’s only been two months and mostly with ‘normal’ people, I just act like things are normal. When there’s a record needle scream, and the colors change, and the sound is all wonky and there’s flashes of what my incredibly overactive imagination conceived as your last moments alive, I have to just sit there and breathe and wait for it to pass.
And eventually it does, somehow. But it always comes back. So I just have to expecting the unexpected.
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