The Patient

The weeds had overgrown his eyes again.

It happened from time to time. He’d have to sweep them away sooner or later. But the struggle to master seldom used muscles and limbs to the task was more effort than living with a denied sense. That the green tendrils had slowly weaved themselves around him uninterrupted, embracing his indifferent form was testament to that. Let nature consume what it would, if he didn’t notice then what did it matter? No, he had greater things to protect from the perpetual consumption that surrounded him.

Sight, hearing, touch, all acceptable casualties in a battle he’d long chosen not to fight. Only one fortification needed to hold, only one bastion needed protecting. The voice. His voice. Him.

The rest was formed of outliers, withering branches stretched out from the base by thoughtless decades. But the voice, oh those glorious chords. That glorious tone of life. The leaves and vines could never win there, where flashes and fires of something truly felt radiated out with an all encompassing force. A secret weapon, his sole holding amidst the sea of nature.

He began to sing. A new song, about fading sight. Perhaps this time he wouldn’t move against the weeds. As long as the song was sung, let them grow.

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