The bat is blind. It nevertheless traverses the night sky, swooping from tree to tree in search of nectar, it sucks the flowers dry of. Unfeeling, they settle upside down, violating the flowers in their 69 positions with the insufferable stench of their breaths. Their rat claws imprison the flowers in a dirty old man’s caress. The flowers wilt and die. But the bats see nothing for they are blind.
The lamp post is blind. It stands with spectral stillness, unseeing and unfeeling. Outside the pool of yellow, viscous light it sheds, unmentionable things happen. It casts shadows outside its territory. Shadows where the sadness of events long past lurk like dangerous men in alleyways. Woe be you if you step into the night alone. The lamppost sees not the shadows it creates. It’s oblivious to the medium it becomes to the darkness. For can there be shadows without light? Outside its halo under which moths fly like disoriented owls blinded by the sun, infinite hurt forms an energy field that nullifies even the smallest happiest thought. It presses against your chest and rings in your ears. The black clouds your eyes and permeates into your soul. They stick to you like leeches, slipping into your shoes, into your collars, inside elastic bands, inside you. Going straight for your heart. Yet the lamppost sees nothing. For it is blind.
Love is blind. It is sometimes a blind samurai. Brave, proud but still blind. Sometimes it’s a blind whore. It sometimes reveals its tits to the most inappropriate people, like the priest, the adolescent schoolgirl or even other blind people. Then, love goes purely by the sense of smell. It can smell the pink of vitality, it can smell the purple of a bruise and the red of lust. Sometimes love is a blind whore, who opens her body wantonly to anyone who can pay. It doesn't matter if they are not in her league. She cannot see. But most times, love is a blind thief. A mean, old blackguard who steals things when you aren’t looking and breaks you when you’re asleep in its arms. A thief who takes without needing. One who takes whatever it can lay its hands on. It stuffs hair from drains into its bag, it pockets stale flowers, it steals hearts right out of people’s chests and forgets where it left them. Leaving behind an empty, vacant void of a void. Hearts it has no clue what to do with, but steals them all the same. A blind thief who goes by audio cues. It listens with the ear of an animal. Keen to every sniff that punctuates a paragraph of tears, pouncing on every sigh and grabbing every piece of a heart as it begins to crumble. Vulnerability. Weakness. It strikes in the giddy blindness of a kiss. It drops a blanket over your head. Knocks you senseless and very carefully carves your heart out. You’ve lost it forever. And you try to fill the void of a void with tears. But even if he so desired, it cannot restore your heart back to you. Love knows neither who you are nor which heart belongs to you. For love is blind.