I just reached out for my glasses, only to find that they weren’t where I usually leave them, on the low table next to the bed. This necessitated twenty minutes of scrambling around, on hands and knees, desperately and blindly combing the floor by feel.
I’ve been unable to see my own hand at a foot’s distance since I was about ten years old. I’m sure I couldn’t see it before that, too, only I didn’t realize it. I’ve worn glasses to swim, to run, to read. I can’t walk without them without potential danger, let alone drive. I’m attached to my tech eyes. I hate them, I love them, I sometimes wear contacts just to know what it’s like to be free of them.
Unlike some of the glasses-wearing people I know, I don’t have the option of taking them off very often. When I shower, when I sleep. Once in a while to smudge them clean on my shirt. I can’t read without them. My range of vision has shrunk a little over time, too. Six inches from my face is the natural extent of my world. If it wasn’t for mad scientists I’d live in a tiny bubble of clarity floating on a sea of blur.