Ever since I was little, I have seen kaleidoscopes. They would cloud my vision, when I closed my eyes, a sea of shapes that twisted and turned like a maze. They would dazzle me with their vivid vibrancy, intricate patterns painted in every shade of colour. And no one was ever the same, a myriad mystical dance of circles and squares against canvases of blue, red, green, orange, purple. But when I opened my eyes, they would vanish, like ghosts.
They followed me, through adolescence. Everyone said they weren’t real. No one else could see them. They would laugh, say it was just my imagination. But I know what I saw.
I still see those patterns. And not just at night anymore. It’s all the time. Each day, I gaze through a sea of shifting spots that glimmer like jewels. And I see the flashes, small semicircle slices of light that appear and disappear, swimming across my sight like fish. With no warning, the flashes will flood my vision, before disappearing into the mist as if they were never there. They’ve got worse this year, growing brighter, growing more intense. The other night they flocked like a swarm, green circles dancing on a canvas of aquamarine. But I don’t mind the kaleidoscopes. They’ve been there for as long as I can remember.
I know it sounds absurd. But I know they’re real. Others like me say they saw them, as children, before any diagnosis. They were a sign I couldn’t read. A warning, of what was to come. And one day, these kaleidoscopes will vanish too. The black hole that bides its time at the back of my eye will consume them, leaving only darkness and shadows behind. And I will dream, of those kind kaleidoscopes.
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