Fuzzy World

Hard to decipher through miasm of brain and wonky vision.

I used to like the world gone indistinct:
Driving on a dark foggy night, trying to decide on high or low beams;
skiing through mists, having to rely on the feel of the snow under my blurry skis;
or gazing dreamily out a rain-drop blurry city window.
The world of vague forms emerging under painfully opened under-water eyes.
How about this.  Hiking at night: be careful, but be bold too.
And what about blind-folded party games—did everyone else cheat as much as I?

These days things go blurry with tears over silly things: the sight of Papa’s beloved sweaters—ones long coveted and snuggled in or up against—now suddenly appearing moth-eaten and abandoned in the pile of trash.

World swims around me while I try to navigate; even while lying still in bed.
I don’t like my new blurriness.  It’s not transporting and exciting like the old kind.

Give me back the old kind of indistinct me: the one you see in those quasi-mirrors in smelly outhouses on government-land campsites with unpotable water.