The head of my bed is against my window. My window looks out over a fairly busy intersection. From my bed, I can see the cars stop and the lights change.
My eyes are bad. I usually wear glasses, but not when I go to bed. I go to bed, I take off my glasses, I rest my head on my pillow, and I watch the cars stop and the lights change.
When I watch the cars stop and the lights change, I see headlights, brake lights, and stop lights. While everything else fades together, the lights become four times their actual size. They aren’t solid anymore, either. When I look at the cars stopping and the lights changing, it looks like one of those artsy, out-of-focus pictures of lights.
This impediment, this disability of sorts, this insufficiency, this failure of my eyes to do as they should, it turns what I see every night as I fall asleep into artwork. And it’s something I cannot share with anyone else, because only my eyes do exactly this to those brake lights and those stop lights. I cannot capture it just as it is by taking a photograph. It is art that only I get to see.

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