“‘It’s a good day,’ I tell myself, reading texts on my phone without squinting. 'It’s a good day,’ as I play video games and can actually read the menus. I wake up in the morning and can read the DVDs on the shelf across my room. 'It’s a good day.’ When I get into my car, I glance at the stop sign down the road. I smile to myself as I put the key in the ignition. 'It’s a good day.’ I can no longer really recall a time when these small, simple checks were not everyday occurances, habits so ingrained that I do them without thinking. I don’t remember what the world looks like without the ever-worsening blur, the darkness that encroaches in my peripheral vision. Colours are becoming dull and muted, the lightest shades already impossible for me to tell apart. I won’t lie: I live in constant panic, waiting for the day that I no longer need the checks. Each morning before I open my eyes, I wonder if the day before was my last time driving or reading fanfics and I didn’t even realise it. But the real terror resides in the unknowns. What age will my nephew be the last time I see his face? I always tell him that I can’t wait to watch him grow up. Will I know what my children look like, if I have them? Will I remember the beauty of a sunset or my mother’s face? I don’t know how much longer I’ll have my vision. I could wake up tomorrow to darkness or be granted another decade of sight. It’s strange, living in this constant state of uncertainty. My mental illnesses, while at times unpredictable, are at least explainable. But this has no guarantees or deadlines. A date cannot be stamped across my forehead like an expiration. Maybe it would be easier with a definite end date. Perhaps knowing how long I had would alleviate some of the fear. But I think it would also take what little motivation I still have to go out into the world and just fucking see it. Because if I lose this tomorrow, if I do not see another sunrise, I want to at least be able to say that I saw as much as I could before it was too late.”
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